


Seven Devils

by GirlsinGlassCages



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 97,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlsinGlassCages/pseuds/GirlsinGlassCages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy being in love with a man who is both a genius and a nutcase. John can deal with the constant mood swings, the disembodied human organs in the fridge and the fact that Sherlock has a tendency to drug his tea. But when Sherlock goes too far and attracts the attention of a psychopathic serial killer, John finds himself in an almost impossible situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Innocent Pronouns

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: All that follows is dedicated to CaughtOutInTheDark who not only inspired this story but also forced me to put it online for others to see. This is my first - and last - fanfiction and every word is dedicated to you, your violin and the deerstalker that you occasionally let me borrow.

John felt as if someone had spat acid on his brain. He could feel his heart beating behind his eyes and the tumultuous churning of his stomach. He stank of night old sweat and second-hand cigarette smoke. He was afraid to move for fear that if he did he might vomit up several of his organs.

Scattered fragments of the night before swirled in his mind like bilge water and through the residual fog of alcohol he remembered being in a club. He remembered the pulsating flashes of neon lights and the thumping sound of lyric-less music and then the endless lines of tequila shots...

He moaned at the mere thought of all the alcohol that he had consumed, of all the alcohol that was still pumping through his veins. He decided that the best course of action was lie as still as possible and to hope that he died before his brain had the chance to feel the full extent of his hangover. He had just been hovering between the realms of consciousness and sleep when something in the kitchen exploded.

His eyes slid open halfheartedly. He squinted in the semi darkness and listened, when the explosion was neither followed by the sound of the fire alarm or someone screaming, he relaxed back into the bed and tried to sleep. It was futile of course. Sherlock was awake and doing something monstrous in their kitchen and neither of those things were conducive to a peaceful lie in. Almost as if on cue another boom echoed through the flat.

"Sherlock." John tried to call but last night's consumption of acrid tequila had caused his throat to seize up painfully. He reached out and took the glass of water, that he had had the foresight to place on his bedside table the night before, and chugged it down. Once he had drained the glass he collapsed back against the pillows and groaned at the throbbing pain that was currently making small bursts of white light to dance behind his eyelids. Never again. He was too old for clubbing. Then again, he was also too old to chase a group of heroin smuggling transvestites down darkened alleyways but he'd still spent last Monday night doing just that.

The next boom was followed by the ear-splitting sound of shattering glass.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. There was no reply, of course there wasn't. He did, after all, live with the world's most irritating, inconsiderate fucking flatmate. He lay listening as the intervals between the explosions grew shorter before he finally gave up and threw the covers off his body. He strode across the room, his brain thumping around inside of his skull viciously. He yanked open his bedroom door and hissed loudly as strong sunlight smacked him full in the face.

Another boom sounded and as John approached the kitchen he could smell bacon burning. He rounded the corner and was confronted with one of the most disturbing sights he had even seen grace the rooms of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was standing by the kitchen table, a white sheet tied around him like he was some sort of dishevelled Roman Emperor. He was wearing a protective visor and the black locks of his hair were sticking up wildly as if an electric current had been sent through them. On the table in front of him there were a collection of boiling flasks – one of which was suspended over a lit Bunsen burner - a bowl full of, what appeared to be, human testicles and an open carton of broken eggs. On the stove behind him there was a frying pan full of practically carbonised strips of burnt bacon.

"Sherlock," John said as he wiped the back of his hand against his sweating forehead, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock, who had been about to crack another egg into a heated skillet, turned his head to look at John. He blinked at him from behind his visor,

"I'm making breakfast." He said as if the fact should have been obvious.

"Why..." John cleared his throat before gesturing in the general direction of the table, "Why are there testicles on the table?"

Sherlock cast a disinterested eye over the bowl of sexual organs before shrugging slightly,

"They were for a spousal domestic violence case where the wife was accused of murdering her husband. I was trying to determine what instrument she used to slice off his scrotum with. I ended up coming to the conclusion that she used rusty box cutters before I had had a chance to experiment on these cadaver testicles."

He seemed almost crestfallen as he stared at the organs with longing,

"I didn't know what to do with them."

"So you decided to use them as a hazardous form of potpourri?" John asked as he squeezed himself passed Sherlock and began rummaging around in the cupboard for some aspirin.

"What exploded?"

"Acetylene gas collected in balloons and then held over a flame."

"What case is that for?"

"No case," Sherlock said as he raised another balloon to the naked flame of the Bunsen burner, "just bored."

The balloon exploded and John thought that his skull had been split open, "Could you stop that?" He asked as he swirled two dissolvable aspirins in water.

"I'm bored."

"And I'm hung over. I need peace and protein and – considering you've burnt all the bacon and fucked up all the eggs – the least you could do is stop blowing up things in my ear shot!"

"Well what do you suggest I do?" Sherlock demanded as he shoved his way passed John and into the living room, "There's nothing, there's been nothing for weeks." He said as he began pacing. The action caused the sheet to slip off his shoulder, revealing an expanse of pale, sinewy shoulder.

"What about the transvestite case... thingy that we solved last Monday?"

Sherlock snorted, "Dull. How was that supposed to sustain me through this perpetual drought? The best part of that was watching you get out run by a man wearing nine inch heels. God! I can actually feel my brain disintegrating inside my skull."

"I know the feeling." John said as he chugged down his dissolved aspirin.

"That's different," Sherlock said with a distracted wave of his hand, "yours is self-inflicted."

"And yours isn't?" John asked incredulously as he sat himself down opposite the bowl of disembodied testicles.

"Does the bullet choose at what speed it is fired from a gun?" Sherlock asked as he stood on one of the coffee tables, kicking a pile of books off the surface in the process. They flew across the room and hit the fire-place with a loud smack.

John gritted his teeth and slammed his hand down on the button of the kettle.

"My mind moves this fast regardless of the stimuli that it's provided with. Without something worthy of captivating my interest my mind goes around in endless loops, snapping from one vacuous thought to another."

"Read a book." John said halfheartedly as he willed the water to boil faster.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Once you have grasped the basic archetypes of both character development, dynamic and plot structure every book is practically the same."

"Then write a book."

"There's nothing new to contribute. The world of fiction has been dead for years – it's just a matter of time before people start to notice. And besides, writers are too introspective, they spend far too much time in their own heads."

John snorted and buried his head in his hands. This was going to be excruciating. A bored Sherlock was worse than Sherlock suffering from nicotine withdrawals. It was liked being trapped inside a hermetically sealed box with a sulking teenager and a howler monkey.

The kettle clicked and John stood up to pour himself a cup of tea,

"Do you want one?"

"I want a cigarette!"

"Nope." John said as he decided to pour Sherlock a cup anyway, maybe he could slip some lithium in with the sugar and knock Sherlock out for a few hours.

"Considering I downgraded cocaine for nicotine I think that_"

"No Sherlock."

"Then what do you propose I do?" Sherlock asked as he pulled the visor off from around his head and threw it against the wall.

"Sherlock!" John hissed as the sound of the plastic hitting the brick wall sliced down his spinal column.

"I'm bored!" Sherlock said as he strode across the room and began rummaging around in the bookshelf.

"Don't even bother looking." John said as he extended a cup of steaming hot tea out to Sherlock, "I hid it along with the nine boxes of bullets I found scattered around the flat."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John but took the tea anyway. He sucked in a tentative sip before licking his lips,

"Why don't we play a quick round of "What Did John Do Last Night"?"

"Oh, no, there's a reason why people don't want to remember alcohol induced blackouts. I keep getting flashes of Lestrade's naked arse and I don't want to know why."

Sherlock seemed not to have heard him because he had placed his cup on the coffee table and had began to look at him with the cold, calculating way that he usually reserved for crime scene corpses.

"You went out drinking with Lestrade at around nine after we had our disagreement_"

"It wasn't a disagreement, it was an argument. I'm fed up of you using me in your experiments."

"I put one laxative in your tea and_"

"You put four laxatives in my tea Sherlock. I was shitting through an eye of needle for three days."

"That's why I slipped you those blackcurrant flavoured electrolyte drinks."

"Oh for Christ's..." John took a deep breath and then a large sip of tea, "I'm going to have a shower."

John took a final swig of tea before he stood up and headed towards the bathroom.

"John."

He sighed and turned to look at Sherlock who, although still in full deductive mode, was staring at him with a different look in his eye, one that made John feel uncomfortable.

"You went to two pubs and a club last night, six... no seven woman offered to go home with you and at least three men slipped you their numbers. I know what you're like when you're drunk, you get impulsive, careless and incredibly horny." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly,

"Why didn't you take any of them up on their offer?"

John stared back at Sherlock for a few moments, willing his face to remain relaxed and impassive.

"I wasn't in the mood."

"Yes you were." Sherlock said as he gestured towards the pale blue boxers that John was wearing, "You were wearing those last night; there are multiple pre-ejaculate stains down the seam, all of them several hours old which suggests that you were frequently aroused_"

"Sherlock, have you ever thought that sometimes you can be incredibly inappropriate."

"Of course, but that isn't an answer to my question."

John opened his mouth to say something but when no words came out he decided to simply turn around and leave Sherlock to his deductions.

"John_"

"I'm having a shower." John said as he walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Thirty-five minutes later John emerged from the shower feeling almost human. His skin was still tingling from the combination of hot water and tea tree body scrub. He'd run out of shampoo two days ago and so instead had settled for using Sherlock's - which smelled like a strange blend of spice and fruit. The smell hung around him as he stepped out of the shower and he didn't know what he found more disturbing: that he smelled like Sherlock or that he liked it. He pushed the thought aside quickly as he pulled a thick white towel around his waist and picked up his dirty clothing from off the floor. He stared at his boxers for a few seconds and saw tiny patches of decolouration on the front – how on earth had Sherlock seen that? He crumpled them up into a ball and threw both them and his t-shirt into the wash basket. The second he opened the bathroom door he came chest to chest with Sherlock.

"Did you steal my violin too?" Sherlock asked as he blinked through the wave of steam that was rolling out of the bathroom.

"What are you talking about?" John asked as he clutched the towel tighter around his waist.

"Did you steal my violin?"

"Sherlock, I just got out of the shower."

"Yes, I can see that, you're currently dripping on my sheet."

John looked down and saw that several water droplets had fallen from his hair and had darkened the white sheet by Sherlock's knees.

"Did you steal my violin?"

"No, for the love of Christ, no I didn't."

"Then why can't I find him!?"

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, unsure if he had heard him correctly,

"Him?"

Some of the accusatory rage slipped from Sherlock's face and was replaced with shock.

"Pardon?"

"You referred to your violin as "him"."

Sherlock blinked before trying to shrug, "Many objects are referred to by gender pronouns, ships for example are referred to as "she" and "her"."

"Why is your violin male? Does he look masculine?"

Sherlock's face was like stone, "Don't mock me John."

"Do you have a name for him?" John asked, a shit eating grin slowly spreading across his lips.

"Don't be ridiculous." But even as he admonished him, John watched as a slight blush stained Sherlock's cheeks.

"What's he called?"

"Shut up." Sherlock said as he pulled his sheet tighter around him and stormed off in the direction of the front room.

"Come on," John said as he hurried after him, "I promise I won't laugh."

"Liar, you're on the verge of laughing already."

"Come on, at least let me guess."

"No."

"James?"

"No."

"Darren?"

"No."

"Roger?"

"This is completely_"

"Tiberius?"

"I find_"

"Ned?"

"No."

"Shanikqua?"

"That's a woman's name."

"Mel_"

"John!"

"What?"

"He's called John."

John stared at Sherlock and managed to maintain eye contact for a full four seconds before he burst out laughing.

"It's not that funny." Sherlock said petulantly.

"Why on earth would you name your violin after me?"

"I never said I named him after you, I simply said that I named him John. I know plenty of Johns."

"No you don't."

"I simply like the name."

"When did you name him?"

"What?"

"When did you name your violin John?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before he said,

"I think I want tea, do you want tea."

"What can I deduce from your evading the question?" John asked smugly as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen, "Perhaps that you named him John after you met me and thus you must have had me in mind while you were naming him?"

"That deductive mind of yours John astounds me sometimes, it's like I'm looking at myself in the mirror." Sherlock said as he placed two tea bags into the teapot.

"Evade all you will, it doesn't change the fact that you named your violin after me."

"I wouldn't take it as such a compliment. If anything, it simply suggests that I can play you easily, use you when I'm bored and then put you out of my mind when I have something better to do." Sherlock said as he poured steaming hot water into the teapot.

"Yes, but then you do get a lot of pleasure from fingering me." John joked. It was poor he knew - and Sherlock never responded well to sexual puns - but he was tired and hung over and he needed to use humour to soothe the sting of Sherlock's insult.

But Sherlock didn't take it as a joke. He didn't snort or roll his eyes in derision or do the things that he normally did whenever he thought John was being an idiot. He simply stopped moving. His hand – which had been stirring the tea with a teaspoon – froze mid stir and his eyes seemed to bore into the cup.

"I was... um... joking, Sherlock."

Sherlock was quiet for another moment before he suddenly snapped to life again,

"Of course, ha, ha." He said in a monotone as he continued to stir the tea with a little more force than was needed.

John watched him, saw the tension in his shoulder and forearm, "Are you alright?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock said, finally looking at John, his gaze was impassive; "I simply need a murder, a multiple murder, a murder that defies the laws of relative possibility. I need a serial killer, not one of those boring ones that are driven by pointless sexual need, but a real psychopath." A dreamy looked flitted across his face.

"I need to get dressed." John said as he began to walk towards his bedroom, "Please get rid of those testicles, Christ knows what Mrs Hudson would think if she saw them just lying there."

"What would she think?" Sherlock asked as he spun around and leaned his head against the kitchen cupboards, "Disembodied testicles are hardly some sort of sexual kink, where's the pleasure if they're not attached to a body. Do you find disembodied testicles arousing, John? Is that some sort of fetish or kink that you have?"

"Sherlock this is getting kind of weird."

"How so?"

"We're two men, both practically naked, staring at a bowl of human testicles talking about sexual kinks."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and squinted at John, "Isn't that known as "guy talk"?"

"No."

He seemed to contemplate that for a second, "Is it only considered "guy talk" when the aforementioned guys are talking about their penises opposed to the other aspects of their genitals?"

John blinked a few times before he said,"Right! I'm going to get dressed."


	2. Initials

The rain was ice cold on the back of John's neck and the fierce wind stung his cheeks and hands. He had been standing in the middle of a field for the past half an hour watching Sherlock stare at a tree.

He usually didn't mind waiting, he liked to see Sherlock at work, he enjoyed watching his eyes as they darted from one thing to another making connections and deductions that no one else seemed to be able to do. John had also noticed that Sherlock made little noises when he was thinking: little high pitched pops when he was pleased with something or low, deep throated grunts when he was irritated.

It was always euphoric being around Sherlock while he was on a case.

But as thirty minutes ticked into forty and the rain came down harder and colder and Sherlock had yet to stop looking at the tree that – to John – looked the same as the other five thousand trees that surrounded the area… John couldn't help but get slightly irritated.

"What's he doing?" Lestrade asked as he came to stand by John.

"He's looking at a tree."

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

"Hey Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted as he cupped his hands over his mouth in an attempt to help carry his voice through the howling wind, "You are aware that the dead body is over here?"

"There's nothing more I can learn from the body." Sherlock called back.

"You haven't even seen it." Lestrade shouted.

"I don't need to; it'll be identical to the others."

"But you_"

"Do you think that maybe you could cross the thirteen meters of land that separates us so that we can have this pointless conversation without shouting?"

Lestrade mumbled something under his breath before stomping across the sodden ground, "Come with me," he said to John, "if you're not there to stop me I'll end up hitting him."

"What makes you think that I'd stop you?" John asked as he pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter around him and followed Lestrade across the field.

Once they were standing a few feet away from Sherlock, Lestrade said,

"What's the significance of the tree?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he extended his hand and pressed a pale finger to the bark,

"Can you see it?" He asked, addressing his question to John.

John took a step closer and saw that, just to the right of Sherlock's finger, there was a set of initials carved into the tree.

"EW?" John read, "What does it stand for?"

"Elizabeth Wilson." Sherlock said as he traced the letters with the pad of his thumb.

"Who_?"

"She's the victim." Lestrade said, "How the hell did you see this Sherlock?"

"He carves the initials of the victim into something near the crime scene. I just had to open my eyes and look – a new concept to you inspector I'm sure."

Lestrade rolled his eyes before he turned and signalled for the forensic team to come over to the tree.

"Why does he do that?" John asked as he watch Sherlock staring at the initials, a small crease marring his brow.

"It's his signature isn't it?" Lestrade said it more as a statement than a question.

"That's one explanation. It's the wrong one but I'll give you points for trying."

"What is it then?" Lestrade asked between gritted teeth.

John watched as Sherlock's fingers traced the bark lethargically, almost like the way he strokes the strings of his violin when he's in deep thought.

"It's a message."

"To who?"

"To me."

"Why_?"

Sherlock suddenly snatched his hand away from the tree and stared at Lestrade,

"They only started to appear after I was asked to join the case. Considering your forensic team is made up of a selection of the finest idiots that have ever graced the police force, I had to go back to the previous crime scenes and examine them. No initials. The first ones appeared the week after you asked me to "help you out". The murder of Isabella Vorn."

Sherlock turned back to the tree and pressed his palms together underneath his chin. He stared at the carving, his eyes darting from side to side, seemingly seeing something that wasn't there.

"These initials are messages to me; he's trying to tell me something."

"Do you mean he's killing to impress you?" Lestrade asked almost outraged.

Sherlock snorted,

"This man is a sexually driven psychopath, he kills because he enjoys it. He would have killed women regardless but he specifically chose these women to send me a message. They differ in race, age and every other form of physical characteristic. Isabella Vorn was married, Eve Gilbert and Olivia Thompson were single, Theodora Hemp was engaged and Elizabeth Wilson was obviously gay."

"How…" Lestrade began but then waved off his own question, "Carry on."

"Every woman differs from the other in every possible way – except for the fact that they're all female – so the message has to be in their names." Sherlock stood silent for a few seconds, seemingly impervious to the pouring rain and ice cold wind.

The second he heard the forensic team approach he made a sound of disgust and stormed off.

"Sherlock," John called after him, "wait up."

He didn't and John was forced to practically sprint through the mud to keep up with the long legged strides of Sherlock Holmes.

John passed the tent where the dead woman lay naked and surrounded by wet leaves and grass. The bright white suits worn by the forensic team seemed out of place in this grey, bleak, colourless place.

The sky above them was almost black with heavy clouds and a brewing thunder storm. John watched the ends of Sherlock's coat flutter wildly in the wind, watched as it played violently with the strands of his hair.

"Sherlock." He called again and this time Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him, his face pale and impassive.

John took advantage of Sherlock's moment of stillness to jog over to him. When he finally reached him he saw that Sherlock looked more troubled than exhilarated – which wasn't normal when he was this embedded in a case. His eyes, although bright with thought, were narrowed and the crease in his brow had deepened.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock stared past him for a moment, his mind lost in a place that John would never be able to reach.

"Something isn't right." Sherlock said at last, "I have this feeling that something isn't right. I'm on the cusp of something, of seeing the truth in blinding Technicolor but at the moment_" he slapped his palms together and pressed them beneath his chin again.

His black hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, an astonishing contrast to the ashen skin of his face.

John watched as a single droplet of water trickled down the column of Sherlock's throat and disappeared beneath his shirt.

"The names are clues; they're part of a picture, a puzzle, something so much bigger than simple murder but what I don't know. I don't know John." Sherlock repeated before his eyes finally found John's.

"This man is goading me, taunting me with fragmented pieces of the past. This is dangerous and usually that would excite me but it doesn't John, this frightens me."

His honestly startled John and he quickly realised that Sherlock was asking him for advice. Sherlock never asked anyone for advice, it wasn't in his nature. But John could see that beneath Sherlock's harsh stare there was a flicker of fear that he had never seen before.

The fact that Sherlock Holmes was frightened of something made John almost petrified.

"You'll work it out." John said, "You always do."

Sherlock just stood there staring at him,

"This feels different. This feels personal."

"Who would want to hurt you?"

At this Sherlock's lips finally twitched into a small semblance of a smile,

"I have a list – which seems to grow larger each year."

"That list might be smaller if you practiced being pleasant to people."

"I am pleasant to people." Sherlock said indignantly.

John nodded and then pointed towards the swarm of people scattered around the field,

"I'd bet good money that if you said hello to anyone of those people they'd punch you straight in the face."

"They're not people," Sherlock said as he looked at them with utter contempt, "they're rats, scurrying around in their invisible cages, completely oblivious to the fact that every second they're slipping closer to death, closer to being completely erased from the face of this Earth. And what would they have contributed? They do nothing but suck up oxygen."

John smiled slightly as he felt a sudden surge of fondness for Sherlock and his blatant disregard for the rest of the human race.

"Should we go home?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked perplexed.

"It's raining."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly and he turned his face up to the cloud blackened sky. After a few seconds he tilted his head back to earth, his face now drenched in droplets of rain,

"So it is."


	3. Sleep

John was dreaming. In his unconscious state images swirled and merged with one another in his mind, each one emerging through a shadowy smog of sleep. For the most part the images were pleasant and his sleep was relatively undisturbed. But occasionally fragmented memories of his life before Baker Street would flicker through his brain, images of war and carnage and broken, faceless bodies.

These dreams used to make him wake up screaming. His pyjamas would always be saturated with sweat and his muscles would be trembling. But since he had started living here these bad dreams had decreased both in frequency and intensity up to a point where he barely remembered them at all.

However this night he was dreaming of Sherlock. He didn't like seeing Sherlock in his dreams because it always confused him. Unconsciousness blurred the lines of friendship and opened up doors that John kept firmly shut when he was awake.

In his dream Sherlock was standing at the bottom of the bed, his face and eyes half swallowed up in shadow. Moonlight illuminated the startling pallor of his skin and John found himself staring intently at the white column of his throat and the sharp edge of his jaw.

He watched as the Dream-Sherlock placed a knee on his bed, he felt the pressure of his weight on the mattress and heard the creak of the bed frame. He watched as Sherlock began to crawl towards him, his eyes dark, his black hair wild and untamed.

John recoiled from the Dream-Sherlock, afraid that if their skin touched something would happen, something bad, something that he could never take back.

The Dream-Sherlock seemed to feel John's fear because he smiled and revealed a set of dazzlingly white teeth which looked almost vampiric in the moonlight.

Sweat gathered down the length of John's spine as he watched as the Dream-Sherlock crawled further up the mattress until the bare skin of his knee nudged against John's outer thigh_

Suddenly John felt heavy hands grab his shoulders and shake him into consciousness. His eyes flew open and, somewhat disoriented, John stared into the face of the real Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" John asked, trying to make sure that the face in front of him wasn't another dream-like apparition.

"Yes."

John blinked a few times and then just stared at Sherlock – who had yet to remove his hands from John's shoulders.

"What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock's eyes looked wild and John could tell, even in the darkness, that he hadn't slept in days.

"You called me – evidently it must have been during a dream-like state – but you called out my name a few times and you sounded... distressed so I thought it best to come in and see if you were alright."

John sat up in bed, pushing himself away from Sherlock's grip.

"I called out your name?"

"Yes, repeatedly."

John could feel a blush rising in his cheeks and he was thankful for the room's lack of light,

"I'm sorry, I was having a nightmare."

"Involving me?" Sherlock seemed almost amused, "Was I the hero or the villain of the piece?"

"Neither." John said as he shoved Sherlock to the side so that he could peer at the clock on his bedside table, "Why are you awake at four in the morning?"

Sherlock shrugged as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed,

"I haven't been asleep."

"Why?"

"My brain is too full of thoughts. They keep crashing around inside my skull." Sherlock said as he pressed his palm against one of his tired eyes.

"Do you ever get that John," Sherlock asked after he had been silent for a long while, "That feeling of being packed so tightly with thoughts that you feel as if you're going to burst. But no matter how many thoughts you have you can still feel each individual one moving around inside your brain like worms, each one struggling to be heard above the others. And they just get louder and louder and louder and you can feel the entire organ throbbing behind your eyes?"

"No Sherlock, I can't say that I have." John said sleepily as his eyes began to close and his body began to relax into the mattress again. John hadn't realised that he had drifted off to sleep until he heard Sherlock snap,

"John!" And suddenly the room was flooded with blinding light.

John hissed and burrowed deeper under the covers.

"Turn off the light."

"John I need you."

"It's four in the morning."

"That doesn't change the fact that I need you."

"What could you possible need me for?" John asked, his voice muffled by one of his pillows.

"I need to use you as a sounding board."

"Talk to your skull."

"I require some level of oral feedback."

"Sherlock," John said as he stuck his head out from beneath the covers, "Are you aware that I have work in the morning. I have to go off and save lives."

Sherlock snorted,

"You're a GP."

"Sherlock_"

"Just take the day off."

"I need the money."

"I have money, I'll pay you."

"Oh, for the love of God!" John said as he threw off the covers and got out of bed, "Go on then, where do you want me?"

Sherlock gave him a strange look before he said,

"Living room."

John plucked his dressing gown off the floor and stormed off in the direction of the living room, Sherlock following close behind him.

The floor was freezing and John shivered as his bed warm feet came into contact with the chilly floorboards. He slid his arms through his dressing gown and tightened the cord around his waist to try and retain as much heat as he could.

The second he walked into the living room, John was greeted with what looked like the external explosion of Sherlock's mind.

The walls were covered in a mixture of photographs, maps, multicoloured sticky notes and Sherlock's spider scrawl like cursive. Bright red wool had been pinned to certain pictures, attaching them to places on a map or particular sticky notes. The room was in chaos and it made John's brain ache just looking at it.

"When I went to bed," John said as he turned to look at Sherlock, "I cleaned this room. This room was spotless." John waved his arms around, "How the hell did you manage to do all of this in less than five hours?"

"Inclination is a very powerful thing." Sherlock said as he crossed the room and began fixing another piece of wool to the wall with a drawing-pin.

"Sherlock," John said incredulously, "This is lunacy."

"Not lunacy John, logic. Never mistake the two."

"With you it's always so hard to tell the difference." John muttered as he sat down heavily in his armchair.

His eyes traced the walls,

"What is all this?"

"It's a web." Sherlock said excitedly as he came to stand in the middle of the room, "The killer links to all the victims and all the victims, in some way, link to me."

"Do you mean that you know them all, that you met them before they died?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"I don't mean I link to them personally, I simply mean that something in my past links to something that these women represent, like Eve Gilbert." Sherlock said as he practically lunged across the room to thrust his finger against a glossy photo of the deceased woman.

"Eve Gilbert was the secretary for the same cab company that employed Jeff Hope – the serial killer cab driver that you wrote about in your stupid blog."

"My blog isn't stupid; it's cathartic and brings in more clients."

"It has a stupid name: A Study in Pink." Sherlock scoffed.

"She was wearing pink; she had a pink phone, pink shoes and a pink suitcase. What would you have preferred me entitle it? A Study in Green? A Study in Scarlet_?"

"I don't have time to have this argument again Watson!" Sherlock snapped.

John shut his mouth knowing that Sherlock only called him by his surname when he was either in a playfully good mood or when he was under extreme stress – judging by the way Sherlock was pulling at his hair John was willing to bet on the latter.

"It could have just been a coincidence."

Sherlock shook his head and pointed at a picture of Isabella Vorn.

"Her link to me is more tenuous but the link is clear. Before she moved to London she lived in York where she worked in dog grooming salon called "The Hair of the Hound." Sherlock stared intently at John, willing him to make the connection before he had to spell it out for him.

"The case we took a few years back," John began, his brain searching his memories like a fisherman would search out a lighthouse through a thick coverage of fog, "the one with the dog and the research facility?"

Sherlock nodded frantically,

"What did you entitle that case as on your blog?"

John swallowed,

"The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Still think it's a coincidence?"

"Sherlock that's only two cases out of the dozens that we've been on, I know it seems strange but it might not be the link."

"But it's not just these two cases." Sherlock said as he began pacing, "I've checked and every single one of these women is linked to the cases that we've been on, even the ones that weren't successful."

"I never wrote about these women in my blog, you didn't even know who they were until you created this... web." John said as he waved his arms around the room, "How was this serial killer able to find out obscure, and yet incredibly intricate, details about cases that he could have only read about on my blog?"

"I don't know." Sherlock practically yelled as he tugged fiercely at his hair as if he wanted to punish it for growing on his head, "If I knew do you really think that I'd be standing here right now? If I knew I wouldn't be creating a web I'd be setting a trap."

John watched as Sherlock paced, the harsh over head light made the purple rings beneath his eyes look darker and almost bruised.

He'd only seen Sherlock like this twice before and each time he had had to resort to drugging his tea and feeding him intravenously. When Sherlock got like this there was no placating him or talking him down, he wouldn't rest or sleep or eat until he had solved the puzzle in his mind. John knew that if he left him like this he would collapse from exhaustion, dehydration or a combination of the two.

"I'm going to put the kettle on."

"I don't want tea." Sherlock snapped as he began furiously scribbling something on a neon yellow sticky note, "This is no time for tea."

John ignored him and padded into the dark kitchen. As he waited for the kettle to boil he slipped back into his room to retrieve his packet of Diazepam from his medical bag. Even though he knew that Sherlock had been clean for the past three years, John never kept any opiate based drugs in his medical bag for fear the temptation might be too great for Sherlock to resist.

He carefully slipped the strip of tablets into the pocket of his dressing gown and headed back into the kitchen.

The kettle had boiled by now and while John let the tea brew in the teapot he crushed up a few tablets to a fine powder before he stirred them into Sherlock's cup. He added several spoonfuls of sugar and a generous amount of milk to help mask the taste. Before going back into the front room he filled up his own cup and slipped the remaining pill sheet back into his pocket.

"I told you I didn't want tea." Sherlock said as John held out the cup to him.

"Going by the wrinkled state of your lips I'm willing to guess that you haven't consumed any liquids in more than thirty-six hours. You either drink this or I'll hook you up to an IV again."

Sherlock glowered at John before he took the cup and sucked down the tea in three large mouthfuls.

Shit. John had hoped that over the course of maybe half an hour or so Sherlock would have sipped the tea thus slowly letting the drug enter into his system. But having knocked back the entire cup in less than four seconds the drug was going to hit his blood stream like lightning.

"Happy now?" Sherlock asked as he slammed the empty cup down on his desk.

John simply nodded and smiled, trying not to let his mild panic show. He retook his seat and carefully watched Sherlock for signs of change.

"Before I got on the case he killed sixteen women over the course of three years." Sherlock said as he traced his finger across a timeline that ran the length of the far wall, "Once I got on the case he killed a woman every week for seven weeks and then abruptly stopped a month ago." His finger stopped on the image of the last victim: Annie Normans.

John watched as Sherlock stood staring at a patch of empty wall.

"Sherlock?"

"Organised and methodical serial killers like this one don't simply stop killing unless they are in prison, incapacitated or dead." Sherlock suddenly sprang across the room and began shoving his arms into his coat.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to canvass the Accident and Emergencies."

"What? Which ones?" John asked as he hurriedly put his cup down on the floor and struggled to his feet.

"All of them," Sherlock said as he manically tried to force his other arm into his coat, "Our serial killer has to live in London, he'll be in his late thirties, he'll be white_"

"Sherlock, you can't canvass all the A&E's in London."

"Why not, there are only a hundred and three."

"Sherlock." John said as he grabbed hold of the hem of Sherlock's coat and dragged him away from the door, "It's half past four in the morning, you haven't slept in three days_"

"John, there is a serial killer out there who hasn't... who has just..." Sherlock swayed slightly and closed his eyes.

"Sit down." John said as he took hold of the lapels of Sherlock's coat and pushed him towards the sofa.

"I feel light-headed." Sherlock said as he slumped down into the cushions.

"Just rest."

Sherlock, who had been blinking rapidly, suddenly directed his gaze at John. His expression turned menacing,

"You drugged my tea." He whispered incredulously.

"I had to; you turned our living room into a giant cat's-cradle."

"You drugged my tea!" Sherlock thundered this time as he tried to stand up.

John pressed his palm against Sherlock's chest and, with minimal effort, managed to keep him sat down on the sofa.

"I can't believe you would drug me against my will." Sherlock mumbled as he flicked at John's hand.

"Does the concept of irony elude you entirely?"

"Shut up Watson."

John smiled slightly as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's ankles and heaved them onto the sofa, effectively forcing him to lie flat against the cushions.

Sherlock mumbled a string of expletives under his breath while shooting death glares at John. John ignored him and simply draped the multicoloured blanket, which Mrs Hudson had crocheted for them last Christmas, over Sherlock's coat clad body.

"Just sleep."

"Like I have a choice." Sherlock said as his eyelids began to droop, "What did you give me?"

"Diazepam."

Sherlock groaned, "You should have made a small concession and used an opiate based sedative."

"Doctors are generally advised against giving recovering drug addicts opiates."

"If you're conforming to that logic then I would have to argue that doctors are generally advised not to drug patients against their will!"

"Shut up Sherlock." John said as he switched off the over head light, plunging the room into relative darkness. Pale blue light glowed behind the curtains and when John drew them aside slightly he saw that the night had just begun to slip from the sky.

John closed the curtains and felt his way towards his armchair. He would sit here until he was sure that Sherlock had fallen asleep. He relaxed into his chair and took a few sips of his tea while he listened to Sherlock's soft breathing.

Through the darkness John could just make out the shapes of the women's faces in the photographs. He wondered if Sherlock thought that the man who had murdered these women was evil or whether he just considered him interesting, a mere puzzle that he had to solve? Regardless of what view Sherlock held for this serial killer, once the case was solved another one would come along and they'd be thrust back into this sort of situation again.

This realisation made John feel drained and he rested his head against the back of his armchair. Would they both be doing this when they were seventy? A small smile touched John's lips as he imagined Sherlock turning up to a crime scene on one of those electronic scooters that went five miles an hour, his dark hair bleached white, skin wrinkled and creased with age.

John couldn't imagine Sherlock being that old. In fact, John couldn't imagine Sherlock being any age other than what he was now. Sometimes he was sure that Sherlock had simply popped out of his mother's womb, six-foot four, head of curly black hair, even then wearing that coat.

John was brought out of his thoughts by Sherlock mumbling, "Irene."

John opened his eyes and turned his head towards him.

"Pardon."

"None of the women link to Irene Adler." Sherlock slurred sleepily, "Why would he make allusions to all of the other cases apart from hers?"

John remained very quiet. He didn't fully understand what she meant to Sherlock or what had transpired between them but he had known enough to lie to him and tell him that she was in a witness protection program in America rather than beheaded in Pakistan. He knew that Sherlock still kept her phone in a locked draw in his desk and that he hadn't deleted any of her texts. He also knew that until this moment Sherlock hadn't referred to Irene Adler as anything other than "The Woman".

"Why would he leave her out?" Sherlock mumbled as he snuggled himself deeper into the sofa.

"I don't know." John said.

"She was so important_ I mean her case was so important." Sherlock quickly corrected, "Maybe she's another clue."

John felt panic shoot down his spine. He was sure that Sherlock – the man who saw everything – had known that he was lying about what had happened to Irene. But John had always assumed that because Sherlock had wanted to believe that she was alive he had chosen to overlook the lie.

Now, if Irene was some sort of key to cracking this case the truth would have to be laid bare to Sherlock and there would be no lie for him to hide behind. John worried what this realisation would do to him. The first time she had died Sherlock had slipped into a state of total silence; he had composed new pieces on his violin, had barely eaten and had point-blank refused to talk about how he felt.

John didn't want to see him hurt like that again.

"Just sleep." John said as he buried his head in his hands.

He had been putting this off for a while, hoping that Sherlock would solve the case without having to get him involved. But from the direction that Sherlock's thought process had now taken it was clear that John had no choice but to do what he most despised.

He was going to have to call Mycroft.


	4. Displaced Chronology

John hadn't been able to return to sleep after Sherlock had passed out. He had simply sat in his armchair drinking countless cups of tea while watching the sun rise through the curtains.

When the room had grown light enough he had tried to read some of the things that Sherlock had written on the sticky notes, but the tense, bunched up letters - which were interspersed randomly with numbers and symbols – had made his brain hurt.

At around five he had settled on re-reading the entries on his blog and scrolling through the pages of comments that fans had left. But before long the words seemed to merge into one and John found himself just staring blankly at the screen.

He had often wondered how it was possible for Sherlock to see the things that he did, how easily he could read people and places, almost as if he was reading the answers off a page. He wondered if it was painful to see so much when all around you appeared to be comparatively blind. John sometimes wondered if he himself annoyed Sherlock with his trite observations and genial contentment with life.

He didn't understand why they worked so well together or why Sherlock – who was constantly either elated or sinking into a chronic depression – generally seemed to find John's company pleasant.

John placed his head on Sherlock's desk and breathed in the smell of the cleaning fluids that Mrs Hudson used.

He had been questioning these things on an increasingly frequent basis and he hated it. He hated how he could feel something inside of him slowly being changed and morphed into something that he was too afraid to look at. It felt as if a knot had been looped around his internal organs and every day it grew a little tighter until the tightness had become an uncomfortable ache.

John turned his head on the desk and stared at the clock. It was seven-forty-five and he had put it off long enough. He sighed, dug into the pocket of his dressing gown and dialled Mycroft's number.

"I'm assuming this call has something to do with Sherlock." Mycroft said as way of a greeting.

"Good morning Mycroft."

"You don't have to bother with pleasantries, at this point in our relationship they have been rendered redundant."

John sighed, the acerbic nature that the brothers shared was only endearing in the younger Holmes.

"I need your help, Sherlock has gotten himself involved with_"

"Why are you whispering?"

"Sherlock's asleep."

Mycroft was silent for a moment,

"I see." Mycroft said and John could almost hear him smirking.

"What? No! No I don't... we didn't... he's just..." John took a deep breath, "I had to drug him. He's become obsessed with a case."

"That seems common place for Sherlock."

"I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important."

Mycroft sighed,

"What's he done?"

John's gaze travelled across the room and alighted on the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't moved all night and John, being irrationally worried that he'd had an adverse reaction to the drug, had periodically gotten up to check his pulse.

Sherlock looked peaceful at the moment and although dark rings still marred the skin beneath his eyes, his pale complexion looked almost human in the glow of the morning sun.

"He's attracted the attention of a sadistic serial killer." John said in answer to Mycroft's question

"And exactly why is this a problem? It sounds more like a treat for Sherlock."

John stood up and began pacing quietly,

"He's become obsessed, he's not been sleeping or eating, he's turned our living room into a giant mind map and I had to peel fourteen nicotine patches off his arm – which frankly defies the laws of science because he should have overdosed." John rubbed his brow in frustration, "He thinks that the women were killed because they link to some of our past cases. He's been connecting everything with sticky notes and fucking wool." John said as he kicked one of the offending balls of wool across the room.

"He's done all of this before." Mycroft said.

"This is different."

"How so?"

John cast a glance in Sherlock's direction to make sure that he was still sound asleep before he said, "He's been talking about Irene."

Mycroft was silent for so long that John had to check that the call hadn't disconnected,

"Irene Adler is dead." Mycroft said at last, "I have both a physical identification and a DNA match to prove it."

"I know, but Sherlock thinks that she's alive somewhere in America, happily living out her life, tying up men and whipping them into submission. If he probes into it anymore he'll find out that she's dead – that I lied to him – and I don't know how that'll affect him."

"What, the fact that she's dead or the fact that you lied to him?"

John sighed,

"Both. Look Mycroft, I'm worried about him and I don't... I'm not sure how to help him."

There was a knock at the door and John snapped his head in the direction of the hallway. Mrs Hudson would get it – she was usually up by this time.

"Are you still there?" John asked.

"Of course, now let me in."

"Pardon."

"I'm at the door."

John stopped mid-step and turned the phone around to stare at it incredulously,

"How..." he began before putting the phone back to his ear and continuing, "How the hell did you get here so fast? I can't have been speaking to you for more than ten minutes."

"Experience has taught me that, when it comes to Sherlock, it's best to nip the problem in the proverbial bud before it gets a chance to turn malignant. Now are you going to let me or would you prefer for us to continue having this conversation over the phone?"

"I... I'll be there in a minute." John said before he disconnected the call and padded down the stairs.

The early morning air was cold and the bright burst of sunlight stung John's eyes. He had to shield his face before he could clearly see the outline of Mycroft Holmes standing at the doorstep.

"Good morning John." Mycroft said with a tight lipped smile.

John was sure that Mycroft had a sort of symbiotic relationship with his suits, almost as if he was some sort of beetle type creature and the suit was his exoskeleton. John wondered if he slept in it.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

John nodded and walked away from the door, allowing Mycroft to follow him up the stairs.

Once John re-entered the front room he saw that Sherlock was sitting up, half of his hair plastered to his face, his eyes still distant with his recent sleep. He rubbed his eyes and then blinked at John as the events of last night began to seep back into his memory. He opened his mouth and looked as if he was about to say something when he spotted Mycroft standing in the hallway.

"What is he doing here?" Sherlock asked as he narrowed his eyes at John.

"I'm just popping by," Mycroft said as he pushed pass John and entered the front room, "I see that you decided to redecorate." Mycroft said as he cast a disinterested eye over the walls.

"You called him." Sherlock said accusatorily, "Was it because of the nicotine patches or the bottles of urine?"

"The_ What urine?"

Sherlock ignored him by turning his attention back to Mycroft,

"I don't need your help; I'm on the verge of solving this case."

"Really?" Mycroft said as he unbuttoned the single button that fastened the lapels of his suit jacket together and sat down in the chair opposite John's, "Because John thinks that you're on the verge of a mental breakdown."

"John is mistaken."

"I don't think that he is." Mycroft said as he stared analytically at his brother's face.

They had seemingly entered a staring completion because neither brother had blinked or broken eye contact for at least a minute.

"Should I put the kettle on?" John asked, hoping to dispel some of the tension.

"Why?" Sherlock asked as he finally turned his attention to John, "Is there something else you wish to drug me with?"

"Have you been using again?" Mycroft asked before John could say anything.

Sherlock's head snapped towards his brother,

"Of course I haven't."

"You have that look in your eye, the one you only get when you've been shooting up."

"John_"

"I'm not talking about the Diazepam, I'm talking about cocaine."

Sherlock stood up and wrenched the coat off his back. He turned his bare arms up to the light and slapped the insides of his elbows,

"See, no track marks."

"You have other veins."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his hands flew to the waistband of his pyjama trousers_

"WOW!" John said, effectively stopping Sherlock's disrobing process, "Boys, let's not do... whatever it is that you're doing. I'll take a blood sample later today and we'll get Molly to analyse it."

"I am not using drugs." Sherlock hissed as he enveloped himself in the crocheted blanket and sat himself down heavily on the sofa.

Mycroft kept his eyes trained on Sherlock for a few moments longer before he turned his attention back to the pictures on the wall.

"John tells me that you've been reviewing your past cases to try and solve this one, what are your thoughts?"

"I will not narrate something that you already know, don't treat me like a child."

"Then don't act like one."

"Boys." John warned again, his eyes flickering around the room to check that there were no sharp objects to hand.

Mycroft sighed and brushed an invisible piece of fluff from his jacket,

"John also tells me that you've been talking about Irene Adler."

Both John and Sherlock became very still.

"I think that it's time to tell you the truth about that particular case." Mycroft continued, seemingly impervious to the two men's obvious discomfort. Mycroft stared impassively at Sherlock for a second before he said,

"She's dead."

John's eyes bore into the side of Sherlock's face searching for any signs of emotion. There was none to be found.

"Dead?" Sherlock asked, his voice clipped and cool.

"Yes, she was beheaded in Pakistan just a little over a year ago. I didn't think that the knowledge of this would benefit you so I told John that she entered into an American witness protection programme."

Sherlock stared blankly back at Mycroft and although his face was impassive, John could see a muscle twitching violently in Sherlock's jaw.

"Does this help you with your case?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock's eyes shifted from his brother towards the far wall. He was silent for a long time but slowly John watched as blood began to colour Sherlock's cheeks and his eyes started to flicker rapidly from one photograph to another. He appeared almost shocked, as if someone had slapped him across the face.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock stood slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders – now completely forgotten. Sherlock moved closer to the wall, seemingly mesmerised by something.

"Sherlock_"

"How did I miss this?" Sherlock whispered as he pressed his finger against the photograph of the first victim.

"Miss what?"

"Objectivism, my objectivism has been compromised." Sherlock said as he suddenly ripped the photograph of Isabella Vorn off the wall, "Seventeen hours spent researching geographical patterns," this statement was followed by the tearing down of several of the maps and, with them, dozens of sticky notes.

"Six days cataloguing past cases," more sticky notes were torn down, "a week cross referencing seven years of collective data and all I had to do was look at the only clue that he has been leaving me!" Sherlock practically roared as he torn down the final remnants of the photographs on the wall.

Torn pieces of paper and notes and photographs covered the floor like a layer of dead leaves. The ripped fragments of the dead women's photographed faces intertwined with one another, mismatched pieces of noses and eyes and lips lay amongst the multicoloured sticky notes.

The room was quiet, the silence only broken by the sound of Sherlock's breathing and the rustling of torn paper as he paced across the room.

"What are you talking about?" John asked as he watched Sherlock pace through the piles of paper.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's, his body becoming still, "The initials, they're not messages on their own – they need to be put together." Sherlock said and he made a show of interlinking his fingers as if to further convey his point.

John's eyes shifted to Mycroft – who was staring at his brother in complete bemusement.

"Sherlock_"

"Oh for goodness sake!" Sherlock hissed as he strode over to his desk, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and began to violently carve something into the page, "It's not the chronology of the murders but the chronology of the cases that they link to." He finished writing and thrust the paper at John.

"Isabella Vorn, Eve Gilbert, Olivia Thompson, Theodora Hemp, Elizabeth Wilson, Onika Martins and Annie Normans_ these women, in that order, spell out the message that he was trying to send me."

John looked from Sherlock's face to the piece of paper that he had thrust into his hand. Written on the yellow page were the women's initials, arranged to spell out the sentence:

I'VE GOT THE WOMAN

Slowly John looked up from the page to Sherlock, who was staring at him with an almost crazed look in his eyes; his cheeks flushed bright red with blood.

"This is what he's been trying to tell me." Sherlock said, "He has her John, this serial killer has Irene Adler."


	5. Festering

"It's not tight enough you need to_ no John, pull it tighter, tighter, that's it now slap me_ slap me harder, harder, you need to_"

"I have done this before."

"Then why are you doing it wrong?"

"I'm not doing it wrong, I've been drawing blood for years Sherlock; I know what I'm doing." John said between gritted teeth as he pulled the tourniquet tighter around Sherlock's forearm.

"And I have been shooting up for years; I know how to hit the vein the first time." Sherlock said as he shooed John away.

John watched as Sherlock viciously tightened the tourniquet and then slapped the inside of his elbow with such force that John could almost feel the sting on his own skin.

"This is a complete waste of time." Sherlock huffed as John slid the needle into his vein and began to siphon off two vials of blood.

"I peeled fourteen nicotine patches off your arm last night_"

"Nicotine is nothing compared to cocaine_"

"Fourteen patches Sherlock, you should be dead."

"I think you're being a little over dramatic_"

"How can Irene Adler be alive?" Mycroft interrupted, his voice was unnervingly calm and quiet.

Mycroft had been sitting in dumbstruck silence since Sherlock had revealed the fact that he had flown to Islamabad, infiltrated a terrorist cell, incapacitated several armed guards, liberated Irene from captivity and put her on a boat heading for New Zealand in less than three days. He hadn't moved for the last half an hour, he had simply stared blankly at the floor, his face ashen and completely impassive.

Sherlock's lips curled up into satisfied smirk,

"I believe I have rendered you ineffable brother. We should commemorate this moment, perhaps invest in a decorative plaque_"

"Why did you do this?" Mycroft asked, finally looking up from the floor to stare at his brother, "I understand why you decoded that message on her phone without thought as to what ulterior motive she might have had... But what I don't understand is why you went to such trouble as to save the woman who proved, publically, that you can, not only be a egotistical show off, but also a blindsided fool."

John watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye, equally, if not more, interested in Sherlock's answer.

Sherlock directed his gaze at the tourniquet around his arm, his long, pale fingers picking at the restrictive elastic,

"Would you have preferred for me to let her be executed?"

"Yes." Mycroft said implicitly without hesitation.

"Well," Sherlock said as he unfastened the tourniquet and threw it in John's direction, "I think that that is the difference that divides you and I."

"I think you'll find, brother dear, that it's not the only difference that divides us." Mycroft said as his eyes briefly fell on John, "I believe that you have to come to terms with the fact that you care." He said as if the word had caused him physical pain.

"I don't care." Sherlock hissed vehemently.

"Of course you don't." Mycroft said as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the armchair, "I, emotionless creature that I am, often fly half way around the world to save the life of a woman that I've spent no more than a collective few hours with."

"You're reading too much into this – as usual." Sherlock said as John secured a piece of cotton wool to the crook of Sherlock's arm with a liberal amount of surgical tape, "The world is simply a more interesting place with her in it."

"Evidently." Mycroft muttered as his eyes swept over the torn up photographs and maps that still littered the floor, "So, "I've got the woman", do you have any idea who the "I" is referring to?"

"I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that Moriarty has something to do with this."

"Obviously. Are you planning on going after her? On executing another rescue mission where you save the fragile little creature from the clutches of the evil mad men?"

"Irene Adler is anything but fragile." Sherlock scoffed.

"That wasn't a denial_"

"Nor was it a confirmation. If this man has Irene Adler then I'm sure she'll be perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

"I see," Mycroft said as he clasped his hands together on top of his knee, "Does that mean that you're dropping the case?"

Sherlock said nothing, he simply stared defiantly back at his brother.

"Brilliant." John muttered as he placed the vials of blood securely in his medical bag.

"Ah yes," Mycroft said, finally directing his gaze exclusively at John, "You haven't voiced your opinion regarding the revelation that, not only is Irene Adler alive she is also – allegedly – being held captive by a sadistic serial killer. What are your thoughts?"

"I..." John began and then realised that he didn't know what he thought. There were so many of them buzzing around in his brain that he hardly knew which one to listen to. "I think," John began slowly, finally directing his gaze at Sherlock – who was staring at him intently – "I think that you need to be careful. I think that the combination of Irene Adler, Moriarty and a serial killer is... well it's just not good and I think that if you're not careful then you could get us killed – and by "us" I mean you and me and, speaking for myself, I would really rather live."

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, his gaze and his face completely impassive. John couldn't tell what he was thinking but, then again, he rarely could.

"I don't know how he knows, but this man – this serial killer of woman – knows enough about you to use Irene Adler as bait. Please don't get into a pissing contest with him or Moriarty. The last time all three of us were in a room together he strapped a bomb to my chest and you pointed a gun at his head_"

John trailed off when he saw a flash of excitement flicker through Sherlock's eyes ,

"Oh for the love of…" John muttered.

"What?"

"This is not a game Sherlock."

"Oh but it is John, and it's a really exciting one." Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling with something akin to euphoria.

"I give up." John said as he began packing everything back into his medical bag, "Go and get yourself kidnapped by a serial killer, strap forty kilos of C-4 to your chest and take a stroll through the Houses of Parliament, just don't get me involved."

"I think you're being a little over dramatic John."

"Seriously Sherlock, you need to shut up before I smack you."

Sherlock snorted but John ignored him,

"We need to get these samples to Molly; you should put some clothes on."

"Oh I don't know," Sherlock said as he stretched himself out across the sofa, "she might enjoy seeing me partially clad." The action caused his t-shirt to ride up and reveal a strip of pale stomach – which shone almost blindingly in the bright morning sunlight. John was momentarily mesmerised by the sight of Sherlock's bellybutton and the way that the taut flesh seemed to jump slightly with every beat of his heart.

Mycroft cleared his throat and, as John looked up he saw that Mycroft was smirking at him. John felt heat creep up his throat and he quickly went about admonishing Sherlock for joking about Molly's obvious infatuation with him.

Sherlock snorted again,

"I wasn't being cruel, I was simply making a joke."

"It was at someone else's expense."

Sherlock shrugged and stretched out further, like a cat uncoiling its limbs, and this time the waistband on his trousers began to dip dangerously low_

"Could you put some clothes on?!" John said, not meaning for his voice to sound so loud – or quite so tense.

Sherlock huffed and literally flung himself off the sofa like some sort of petulant five year old,

"Why do I have to go with you? I should be here, reviewing my notes, making links, trying to find out_"

"Sherlock." Mycroft warned, "Stop acting like a spoilt brat and go and put some clothes on."

Sherlock grimaced and stormed off down the hallway in the direction of his bedroom, muttering profanities under his breath as he went.

Once John had heard his bedroom door slam shut he breathed out a sigh of relief and collapsed onto the sofa that Sherlock had recently vacated. The sunlight fell on him and he had to shield his eyes to prevent the harsh rays from burning his brain.

Seconds slipped into minutes and he almost forgot that Mycroft was still sitting in the room.

"Have you talked to him about it?"

John looked up and saw Mycroft staring at him intently.

"Talked to him about what?"

Mycroft levelled him with a steady look,

"About your... evolving feelings."

John blinked,

"I... I don't... he's just my friend, we're just friends, I'm not_"

"Yes, yes," Mycroft said, waving off his comments lethargically, as if the prospect of even listening to John's explanations were enough to bore him to tears,

"I know that you're not gay, you've so vehemently impressed that particular piece of information on every person who makes your acquaintance that I couldn't help but be aware of your sexual preferences. But..."

And the word seemed to hit John square in the face, he hated that word in this moment, he hated what it implied, hated the damage that it could cause.

"But you are becoming aware that some of your feelings are transcending the normal bounds of friendship_"

John shushed him, turning his head to stare down the dark hallway and make sure that Sherlock wasn't eavesdropping.

"He can't hear us," Mycroft assured John, "He's intelligent, not a vampire."

John sighed and reluctantly looked back at Mycroft,

"This really has nothing to do with you."

Mycroft nodded,

"Your lack of contradiction is all the admission I need_"

"Mycroft_"

"Don't worry," Mycroft said as he stood up and buttoned up his suit jacket, "I won't say anything. But if I were you – which, thank the heavens I am not – I wouldn't let these feelings fester. The prolonged repression of these sorts of things never end well, you'll find that, one day, you won't be able to take it anymore. This longing inside of you, this evolving feeling, if not addressed, will ruin you and in doing so it will also ruin your friendship with Sherlock."

John looked at Mycroft for a long moment,

"Are you talking from personal experience?"

Mycroft's lips curled into an unpleasant semblance of a smile,

"Good Lord no, I'm referencing from basic psychology. I would never let myself get involved with something as messy as a... sexual relationship." He said, actually shuddering at the utterance of the words.

"Lucky for you, no one wants you to." Sherlock said as he came striding into the living room buttoning up the remaining buttons on his purple shirt.

John must have looked something akin to terrified because Sherlock said,

"Don't worry, I wasn't listening. I assumed that in my absence you two would discuss me and I had no interest in listening to your trite observations."

"Well, this has been fun." Mycroft said as he took out his phone, pressed a series of buttons and then pocketed it again.

"Yes, we really must do it again sometime." Sherlock said as he slid his arms into his coat, "Put a date in the diary John and we'll make a proper evening of it."

"When did you become so sarcastic Sherlock?" Mycroft asked ponderously, "You were always such a literal child."

"Things change."

Mycroft's eyes slid to John and he said with a small smirk, "Indeed they do."

John wanted to punch him and Mycroft must have realised this because his smirk intensified.

"I wish I could stay longer but I have to fire about sixty people for failing to find out that Irene Adler was actually alive – I'll omit the part about you being the one to save her."

"You're too kind Mycroft, now could you very kindly get out?"

"Goodbye John." Mycroft said, a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips as he turned and disappeared down the dark hallway.

"Can you feel that?" Sherlock asked and John turned his head to look at him.

"Feel what?"

"The blood starting to return to your veins, Mycroft has this way of restricting blood flow. You have to make sure that you spend as little time as possible in his presence, otherwise you'll find your flesh turning necrotic and your organs shutting down."

John was rendered momentarily speechless by Sherlock's description.

"What?" Sherlock asked as he looped his scarf around his neck and turned his coat collar up so that it lay flat against his neck, "Do you think I'm being too harsh on him."

"No, I mean after all, he did call you malignant. It's quite apt for you to compare him to some sort of Dementor."

"Compare him to a what?"

John waved his hand dismissively,

"It's a reference to pop culture."

Sherlock grimaced,

"I thought we agreed that you'd stop doing that." Sherlock said as he crouched down on his knees and began rummaging through the debris of paper, evidently searching for something.

"I thought that we agreed that you'd stop blowing things up in the kitchen."

Sherlock swivelled sharply around to look at John,

"I haven't been near my Bunsen burner in almost a fortnight. What have I blown up this week?"

"The carton of eggs that you put in the microwave."

"That wasn't for an experiment." Sherlock said petulantly, "I was hungry."

John hid his smile behind his hand,

"We should go," John said as he stood up, "The sooner we establish that you're clean the sooner we can get home and… deal with fact that both a serial killer and a psychotic criminal master mind want to have you over for dinner. Maybe I should start child locking the internet again or just slap an electronic tag on your ankle_"

"John."

John stopped putting on his coat and turned to look at Sherlock – who was uncharacteristically picking at a loose thread on the collar of his coat.

"Yes?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath, held it for a second before he said,

"I know that you lied to me about Irene Adler, I know that Mycroft told you that she had been beheaded and that you chose to tell me that she had been entered into the witness protection programme." Sherlock looked up from the loose strand of thread and levelled John with his gaze,

"It was unnecessary but… it was appreciated." Sherlock's eyebrow twitched slightly and John realised that this was as close as he was going to get to saying thank you.

John smiled,

"You're welcome."

Sherlock nodded and tugged on his scarf,

"Come on then, let's go and prove that I'm not a crack whore." Sherlock said as he strode pass John and down the stairs.

John stared after him for a moment in mild bemusement, never thinking he'd hear those words escape the lips of Sherlock Holmes.


	6. First and Last Fights

In the three years that John had lived at 221B Baker Street he had had a total of two serious fights with Sherlock. The first fight had happened about a year ago when Sherlock had broken into John's psychiatrist's office, made copies of John's patient file and had then taken them home to analyse at leisure. John wouldn't have found out if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock had carried out an experiment in which he had soaked all of his socks in a solution of nitric acid and Fairy Liquid and then left the offending garments in a huge, sodden pile on the living room floor.

John hadn't touched them until Mrs Hudson had complained that water was starting to seep through the floor boards and drip onto her kitchen table. After relenting, re-washing and drying the socks, John had been putting them back into Sherlock's draw when he had found his patient file pushed to the back of the cupboard.

He hadn't known what it was at first and had been hesitant to look in case they were some of Sherlock's private documents. But then he had seen his name scattered sporadically through the pages and he had realised what Sherlock had done.

_"Does privacy mean nothing to you?" John had asked later that night once Sherlock had returned from Bart's with a jar of eyeballs and tin of chopped tomatoes._

_Sherlock's eyes had flicked from John to the papers that he was holding in his hand._

_"I see you found the file."_

_"No Sherlock, not the file, it's my file. How... it's..."_

_"It's what?" Sherlock had huffed as he had crossed his arms over his chest._

_"It's a violation of my privacy."_

_"I just wanted to find out things about you, that's caring, that's taking an interest, I thought that's what flatmates were supposed to do."_

_"No, flatmates are supposed to pick up bread and milk when we've run out, or cook dinner once in a while, or clean up when they make a mess, or have the courtesy not keep eyeballs in the fucking fridge!"_

_"Where else do you propose I keep them?"_

_John had felt the veins in his neck standing out and he had forced himself to take a long, deep breath._

_"You're not allowed to do stuff like this, you're not allowed to invade my privacy. So I shall reiterate: Does privacy mean nothing to you?"_

_Sherlock had raised his eyebrows,_

_"I could ask the same of you."_

_"How?"_

_"The only reason we're having this conversation_"_

_"It's not a conversation, it's an argument. The way you tell the difference is that when we're having a conversation I DON'T SHOUT!"_

_Sherlock had flinched but he had held his ground,_

_"The only reason we're having this argument is because you went through my sock draw. You went into my bedroom – which is a private place – and you invaded my privacy. So I think that if I'm willing to forgive you for that then you should be willing to forgive me for_"_

_"Are you being serious?" John had asked incredulously, "You broke into my psychiatrist's office and stole_"_

_"Copied_"_

_"You stole my patient file and then analysed it." John had said as he brandished the pages at Sherlock and then threw them in his general direction, "You've written the word "idiot" and "cretin" a number of times in margins."_

_"I was referring to the psychiatrist_"_

_"You also wrote something about "chronic masturbation", were you referring to the psychiatrist that time too?" John had practically roared as he kicked over one of the coffee tables._

_"John, I think that you're_"_

_"Don't tell me that I'm over reacting. I'm not over reacting; in fact I think you'll find that I'm under reacting... I don't even know how you could..."_

_Sherlock had narrowed his eyes before saying,_

_"You don't know how I could have broken into your psychiatrist's office or known about your chronic masturbation habits? Maybe the word "chronic" is too strong, would you prefer the term "vigorous"?"_

_John had stared blankly at Sherlock before he had turned, grabbed his coat and started to thrust his arms into the sleeves._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"Out!" John had said before he had stormed down the hallway and out of the flat._

This particular fight had been followed by a week of tense silence in which John had refused to be in the same room with Sherlock or accompany him to any crime scenes.

Mrs Hudson had tried to intervene after she realised that, without John there to cook or actually force him to eat, Sherlock was actually starting to disintegrate.

This argument had finally been resolved after Sherlock had taken a personality test online, printed off the results and slid them beneath John's bedroom door.

After reading through the pages – which contained some rather disturbing, and yet accurate, observations about Sherlock – John had walked into the front room to find Sherlock peeling the shells off of several dozen boiled eggs.

Sherlock had looked up, his face pensive, eyes slightly wary.

_"Should I be worried about these results?" John had asked as he waved the pages in front of Sherlock._

_"Those tests are grossly inaccurate, there's such a large margin of error due to the fact that the results are mainly based on a percentage system in relation to the multiple choice answers." Sherlock had said as he cracked the shell of one of the boiled eggs, "One of the questions was: Would you kill anyone? With the implication being that if you answered "yes" then you would, by default, be some sort of sociopath rather than acting out of a level of pragmatism." Sherlock had said with a snort._

_John had sighed, crumpled up the pages and then had thrown them in the waste paper basket,_

_"Do you want dinner? Or are you content with your eggs?"_

_Sherlock had shaken his head in derision,_

_"These aren't for eating John." He had said with a small – rather eerie - smile on his face._

_John had waited for him to explain himself but, when Sherlock had done nothing but smile down at his eggs, John had said,_

_"I'll order Thai."_

_"I don't want Thai, I want Indian."_

_"Fine, I'll order Indian."_

_"Ask for extra poppadoms."_

_"Why don't you ring them?" John had asked as he held out his phone to Sherlock._

_Sherlock had looked up at John and had gestured to the egg in his hand,_

_"I'm busy."_

_"What are you doing?"_

_"I'm peeling eggs."_

_"Why?"_

_Sherlock had seemingly contemplated how much to tell John, his eyes had gotten a little narrow and he had pressed his lips into a thin line,_

_"It's for an experiment. I need mass amounts of solid protein."_

_"Why?"_

_"I'd rather not say."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Because it would make you angry."_

_"I'm already angry."_

_"No you're not, you've forgiven me, that's why you offered to order dinner."_

_John had thought about arguing but then had decided against it. He had scrubbed his hand against his brow before he had gone into the kitchen to find the number for the Indian takeout that Sherlock liked._

_Four seconds later, Sherlock had heard John practically scream,_

_"What the fuck is in the sink?"_

The second fight, however, was different from the previous one because this fight wasn't caused by something Sherlock had done but rather by John and this fight hadn't been resolved because it was happening right now.

John had known the second he put his key in the front door and had heard the screeching sound of Sherlock dragging the bow across the strings of his violin that he should probably call Lestrade and go out for a couple of pints – just to take the edge off. He had had an awful day at the clinic – which had been made worse by the fact that he wasn't sleeping too well of late due to the fact that his flatmate refused to stop playing his violin.

He had missed the train to work and then had missed the train home and then had been caught in a torrential rain storm and was thus soaking wet and cold. John was in a foul mood and as he dripped his way up the stairs he could feel the anger bubbling away in his chest.

Instead of going straight to his bedroom – like he should – John went straight into the front room. Sherlock was stretched out in his armchair, clad in the same pyjamas that he'd been wearing for days. His face was blank and his eyes were lifeless as he scraped the bow back and forth tunelessly.

"Stop it." John hissed.

Sherlock looked up at him but his arm kept scraping the bow against the strings.

"You're soaking wet." Sherlock observed disinterestedly.

"I know, I got caught in the rain."

"You should have taken an umbrella."

"Thank you for that insight."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched slightly at John's sharp tone.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked as he played a particularly grating note.

"Stop playing your violin, it's driving me insane."

"It helps me think." Sherlock said, still not stopping.

"I can't sleep." John said as he shoved his arms out of his coat and threw it on the floor, "Do you have any idea how many nights it's been since I've slept properly."

"I can't sleep either_"

"That's your problem." John said, his voice getting a little too loud, "You're the one who is obsessing over this case – over finding a woman who has caused us far more trouble than she's worth."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes flashed with something that he couldn't read. His hand finally stilled and the noise stopped.

John closed his eyes in relief and basked in the momentary silence.

"I'm not obsessing over this case because I want to find Irene."

"Why are you on a first name basis with her now?" John asked and he could feel himself slowly losing control of what he was saying, "I mean, you never called her by her first name before, it was always "the woman" – that's why this serial killer wrote "the woman" rather than "Irene". Why has that changed?"

Sherlock stood up slowly, his bow in one hand, his violin in the other,

"What's wrong with you John?"

"Nothing's wrong with me Sherlock. I'm not the one who plays his violin at two o'clock in the morning, or attracts the attention of sadistic killers or keeps organs in the fridge."

Sherlock looked momentarily outraged,

"I haven't kept any organs in that fridge for over a fortnight."

"I found toes next to the salad dressing this morning."

"Toes aren't organs John; I would think that being a doctor you would know the distinction between organs and general body parts." Sherlock said as he pointed his violin at John.

"This is driving me insane." John said as he raked his fingers through his hair, "I can't take this anymore, I can't... you need to give up this case."

Sherlock seemed bewildered,

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to drop it, not work on it anymore, give it up."

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched,

"I can't do that."

"Why not? Is it because of Irene?"

"What is your obsession with that woman?"

"It's not my obsession Sherlock, it's yours." John said as he took a step closer to Sherlock, "Do you have any idea what it did to me to see you so broken up after the first time she died_?" John asked as he took another step closer, causing Sherlock to back away slightly.

"I was not broken up_"

"You were moody and depressive and all you did was play that fucking violin and compose music like you were love sick. And now that she's back in our lives, you're doing it again, playing your violin, composing music, sinking into one of your chronic periods of depression and I'm telling you that I can't take it anymore." John said and before he knew what he was doing he had taken Sherlock's violin and had smashed it against the wall. The sound of wood splintering and string snapping filled the room.

Sherlock's eyes got very wide, almost childlike, as he turned his head to stare at the shattered remnants of his violin. John watched – completely horrified at what he had done – as Sherlock crouched down and plucked up some of the splinters, cradling them in his hands like they were precious.

John hadn't meant to throw it so hard, he didn't know how he could have broken it so entirely, maybe the wood was old or_ Oh God, maybe it was some sort of ancient Holmes family heirloom that was handed down through the generations and he had just smashed it beyond repair.

"Sherlock..." John began, all former anger completely lost from his tone.

Sherlock didn't look up; instead he continued to pick up pieces of the splintered wood. When he did finally look up John saw that his eyes were tight, almost as if he was holding back tears.

"Sherlock, I_"

"Are you jealous John?"

"What?"

"Are you jealous of Irene Adler for taking up so much of my time and attention?"

"What... why would I be jealous?" John asked.

Sherlock just stared at him for a long moment and the intensity of his stare gave John the awful impression that Sherlock was actually looking inside his brain, reading his thoughts and feelings as easily as one would read a large print book.

They just stood staring at each other for a long moment and John could feel his heart starting to race wildly in his chest and cold sweat starting to gather beneath his arms.

Maybe he already knew, he was the man who knew everything after all, he must have picked up on the way John was acting, he must have noticed that something had started to change between them – at least on John's part.

Maybe he should just confess, get it all out in the open so that they could talk about it and he could finally stop feeling like he was constantly on the verge of either screaming or vomiting. He opened his mouth and he was going to say it, he was going to tell Sherlock about all the thoughts he had been having and about the dreams and about the tightness in his stomach and chest. He was going to tell him that he didn't know what was happening to him, that he didn't know why he was feeling the way that he was and that it terrified him because this wasn't who he was.

John liked women. He was straight – had been his entire life – but... he knew that the way he felt for Sherlock was becoming something more, transcending the bounds of friendship and becoming... becoming something... darker and more desirous and_

"Boys?"

John flinched and quickly turned his head to break Sherlock's almost hypnotic eye contact.

The sound of slipper clad feet approached and in the next moment Mrs Hudson was popping her head around the corner. Her hair was in curlers and her floral dressing gown was pulled tightly around her thin little frame.

She looked from John to Sherlock to the smashed violin on the ground,

"Oh dear, what's happened?"

Sherlock had yet to speak and John could feel his gaze on the back of his neck.

"We've had a little domestic." Sherlock said finally, his voice ice cold and harsh.

"Look at your poor violin." Mrs Hudson said as she scuffled past John and crouched down to pick up some of the broken pieces, "I have some wood glue in my cupboard, do you think we could do something with that?"

If the situation hadn't been quite so tense then her question may have been funny but neither Sherlock nor John laughed, they didn't even smile. For the first time since entering the rooms of 221B Baker Street, John felt like he wasn't home – which was surreal because this was the only place he had felt at home. He knew that he couldn't stay, this argument wasn't something that they could easily resolve, wasn't something that could be fixed by ordering dinner or leaving things be.

This was serious and he couldn't deal with it now.

John picked up his coat, keeping his eyes away from Sherlock's piercing gaze, and slipped out of the room. His clothes were still wet and his body was still cold but as he opened the front door he realised that that didn't matter – it was still raining.


	7. Liquid Lubricants

There was something incredibly depressing about being one of two people left still drinking in a pub at almost midnight on a Wednesday. When he had first arrived the place had been pulsing with life and John had had to shout his order across the bar to be heard over the loud roaring of an enthusiastic stag party and the several dozen chattering patrons. Because of the incessant noise John had kept his phone clasped tightly against his palm so that he could feel if it vibrated, in case someone rang or texted him.

But almost six hours had passed and the stag party had moved on to an afterhours club and the – now half drunken – patrons had slowly trickled out until only John and a man wearing a green felt suit and a yellow straw hat were left chugging down pints like they were glasses of water.

His phone was lying face up on the bar and even though he knew that no one had called or texted he still kept checking the screen.

"Girlfriend?"

John looked up from the foamy remnants of his pint and saw the bartender looking at him reflectively.

"Sorry?"

"You haven't stopped checking your phone since you got here. I've only see guys do that when they've had an argument with their girlfriend and are waiting to see if they've been forgiven yet. So... what did you do?"

John drained the last of his drink before he shook it at the bartender, "It's not my girlfriend," John slurred slightly, "it's my mate. I had a fight with my mate because he wouldn't stop playing his violin so I smashed it... I smashed his violin which is just... so completely..."

The bartender took the glass from John's hand.

"I smashed his violin." John said again, "You can't smash Sherlock's violin, that's like..." John buried his head in his hands, "He's not going to call, he's probably still in the front room picking up pieces of John."

"What?" The bartender asked as he placed a refilled pint of Guinness in front of John.

"John." John moaned, "He named his violin John, after me and I smashed it because he keeps calling Irene Adler by her first name. And now I'm going to have to move out and start living with Harry."

"Harry?"

"My sister. My alcoholic, self centred, narcissistic sister who is probably sitting in some pub just as drunk as I am." John said as he stared at his pint glumly.

"I don't want to move in with Harry, we never got along, we're worse than Sherlock and Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's older brother!" John snapped, "What is it with you and the questions? Aren't bartenders supposed to just shut up and serve drinks at exorbitant prices?"

The bartender put up his hands in a sign of mock surrender,

"I was just trying to help – because you look like you're about to throw yourself off a roof."

John laughed,

"That might actually work you know, because he's crazy and maybe the only way you can get through to crazy people is by doing something so completely and utterly stupid." John slurred as he took a sip of his Guinness, "I live with a crazy person, he's certifiable, he has a bee hive on the roof... a fucking bee hive! He doesn't think that I know but I do but I didn't say anything because there's no reasoning with a crazy person. I mean, what could you say? "Please Sherlock, please don't keep bees on the roof" to which he would reply, "Well where do you propose I put them John?"

Suddenly John's phone buzzed and he reached for it so fast that he knocked over his pint, soaking the table top in alcohol. John scanned his inbox and saw that he had a new message... from Mycroft. It simply read:

You broke his violin?

John thrust the phone roughly into his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair, "He's never going to forgive me."

The bartender was silent while he began mopping up the spilled Guinness – which was dripping onto John's rain dampened jeans.

"So this mate?" the bartender said as he soaked up the alcohol with a dirty bar rag, "Is he a special mate?"

John looked up and saw the bartender smiling at him slightly,

"I'm not gay." John said as he placed his hands flat on the bar, "I'm not gay, I like women, I enjoy having sex with women_ no, I love having sex with women." John said, his voice getting progressively louder.

"Alright mate." The bartender said.

"No it's not alright mate, the problem is my mate because there are... because I want to..."

"You want to have sex with him?"

"No!" John said and he slammed his palms against the bar. He shook his head to reiterate his point, "He is the most irritating human being that I have ever met. He shows a complete lack of regard for me and my privacy and my sanity. He rarely cooks and when he does his usual motivation is because he wants to drug me with something or carryout an experiment or see what explosive diarrhoea does to a person. He texts me when I'm at work asking me to hand him a pen, or a tissue or to make him a cup of tea. He forces me to go on cases with him and then bitches about me blogging about them. He has set fire to the kitchen twenty-three times and he used to hide his cocaine in a human skull that he keeps on the mantel piece."

John scrubbed his face with his hands,

"I should hate him but I don't. I should want to have a normal, healthy, sane relationship but I don't. I want him. I want Sherlock Holmes in ways that I don't even understand and that's just crazy because I'm not gay and Sherlock doesn't do sex or relationships or... anything other than solve cases and work and being the world's most irritating consulting detective and flatmate."

The bartender blinked at John,

"I think you've had enough. Do you want me to call you a cab? There are a couple of decent hotels on the main road; they're cheap but not disgusting."

John shook his head as he got to his feet, wobbling slightly,

"I'm going home, I'm going home to 221B Baker Street and I'm going to have a conversation with my mate."

"Whoa," the bartender said as he placed his hand on John's shoulder, "You don't want to do that."

"I do, I need to."

"You're drunk and emotional and you'll regret it in the morning."

"I've already fucked up everything anyway," John said as he took out his wallet and handed the bartender a hand full of fivers, "It's not like I can make it worse."

"You can always make it worse... hey mate... you can always make it worse." The bartender called after John as he shrugged his arms into his coat – which was still slightly damp and cold – he stumbled off his stool and walked back out into the freezing night air.

His breath fogged out before him and John pulled his coat tighter around his trembling body. He'd been in damp clothing for too long and that combined with the ice cold winter air was causing him to feel slightly feverish.

John stumbled his way down an alley, bracing his hand against the brick wall by his side. It was good that he was drunk, he was always able to express his feelings better when more alcohol was pumping through his veins than blood. He would talk to Sherlock; he'd find a way to get Sherlock to forgive him. They'd been through worse; they'd fought before and exploded at each other and John had stormed off, gotten drunk and then returned late at night like nothing had happened.

Sherlock had drugged him and incapacitated him; he'd strapped him to a bomb and put him in the sights of a psychopathic criminal master mind... And John had forgiven him every time – with little complaint and...

John stopped walking. He should say all that to Sherlock. He should say it now, he couldn't wait until he got home because he was drunk and he knew that he was going to forget. He was just going to ring him now because drunken phone calls were always a good idea.

John pulled out his phone, the copious amount of alcohol in his system made the words on the screen wobble slightly but he was still able to select Sherlock's name from his list of contacts.

He placed the phone to his ear and listened to it ring.

"Come on Sherlock." John muttered as the phone went to voicemail. He tried again, mentally and verbally willing Sherlock to pick up.

On the third try instead of going to voicemail John heard Sherlock's disembodied voice,

"I'm not in the mood to talk right now John_"

"I know, I know, but please just listen to me, listen... listen... listen_"

"Yes John, that's exactly what I'm doing. I have ears and listening is generally known to be a relatively passive process."

"I need to say something."

"I gathered that_"

"Shut up for a minute and let me speak."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment,

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yes," John said as he tried to take a step forward but ended up stumbling and resting his shoulder against the brick wall, "But that's not the point, the point is that I'm sorry. Jesus, Sherlock I'm really, really sorry about smashing John like I did. And I don't know anything about violins but if you tell me what to get then I'll buy you another John, I'll buy you a better John."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice sounding slightly amused, "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"Of course, I might be drunk but I know what I'm saying... Sherlock..." John pressed his head against the cold wet brick of the wall and sucked in a lungful of freezing cold air, "Sherlock there's something that I want to say and I don't really know how to say it because I don't really know how I feel but I have to say something because it's driving me insane – and that's the main reason why I lashed out at you."

They were both silent and John took in another shuddering breath before he said,

"Please don't hate me for saying this but Sherlock I think that I might be... I think that I want to_"

Something that felt like a bee sting stabbed at John's neck. It hurt and he was about to reach up to feel the area of abused skin but he quickly realised that he couldn't. He couldn't move but he could feel warmth spreading from his neck and down his spine.

"Shhh_" he tried to say but his speech came out so slurred that he couldn't even pronounce his name. "Shheer_"

"John, are you alright?" John heard Sherlock ask.

He felt his knees begin to tremble and he knew that he was about to fall to the ground. A large, pale hand slid around his waist and splayed fingers stretched across his abdomen. He stared at it for a long moment, not quite sure what it was that he was looking at. He tried to touch the hand but his own weren't capable of moving.

"I'll take that." A quiet, cold voice whispered against his ear.

Icy fingers pried the phone from his hand and John could no long hear Sherlock's voice. His legs finally gave out and the person behind him held him up by hooking his arm around his waist. Slowly, John could feel himself being lowered towards the dirty, rain soaked ground. He was laid down face first so that his lips and nose were kissing the floor, he could taste the filth in his mouth and smell it in his nostrils.

He couldn't move his body, no matter how hard he tried. He simply had to lie there and listen to the voice above him speak down the phone to Sherlock,

"Mr Holmes, I have to say that I'm a little disappointed. I thought that our first conversation would have happened face to face. But then again I thought that you would have found me by now."

John felt a hard shoe slide beneath his ribs and slowly flip him onto his back.

The only part of John that could move was his eyes and as he lay there on the hard cold ground his eyes scanned the man in front of him.

He was deathly pale; the skin of his face and hands was almost a blinding shade of white. He had heterochromia, and John could see even in the dim light, that he had one blue eye and one that looked almost black. His hair was short and blonde, his lips thin, his frame slight and almost fragile looking. He stared down at John with a sort of deviant hunger that made John's heart rate spike.

"I thought that you were smarter than this," the man said as he slid one of his shoes up the length of the inside of John's leg, "I sent you a very clear message, in fact, it was embarrassingly easy to decipher. It was one step shy of just giving you a map with a cross marking the spot where you could find me."

Sherlock must have said something because the man smiled unnervingly at John,

"I'm still holding out hope. After all, I now have a double incentive for you considering I have your woman and your pet." The man's eyes travelled over John's body, lingering on a few choice places,

"I must say, he's rather pretty." The man said as he lowered himself onto the ground and straddled John's hips. The weight of the man's body pressing against him made John feel sick and he desperately wanted to get away.

"He's a pretty little pet, scared at the moment, but pretty none the less." His ice cold fingers traced John's lips, "Does he come running when you call?"

John could just make out the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice down the line but he couldn't work out what he was saying.

"I've injected him with a strong paralytic, he's totally helpless, I could do anything to him right now and he couldn't even scream. Usually I like to hear them scream but there's something rather thrilling about watching all their fear leak out of their eyes." The man said as he locked eyes with John, "He has such pretty eyes, not quite as pretty as yours Mr Holmes, but then I have a weakness for blue eyed boys. What colour are yours John? I can't quite tell, it's too dark..." the man said as he leaned in closer to John's face, so close that John could feel his breath on his lips.

"But he's a brave one, not willing to show me just how petrified he really is. Are you frightened Mr Holmes? I can't see your eyes but I think I can detect a slight tremor in your voice. Are you worried that I'm going to hurt him?"

Suddenly the man straightened up and placed one of his hands on John's abdomen, pressing down hard enough to make John internally cry out in pain.

"I've left you enough clues but because I'm a generous man I'll leave you one more." The man said as he reached behind him and pulled out a piece of heavy looking rectangular plastic. John didn't realise what it was until the man pressed a button and a long, thin blade flicked out. The man held up the blade to the light and turned it over in his hand to make it glint.

"One final clue Mr Holmes." The man said before he turned his body slightly and began to carve something into the brick wall beside John. The sound of the metal grinding against the brick seemed to link directly to John's pulse and with every scratch on the brick, his heart sped up.

"Would you like to speak to him? Relay some last words of solace or any declarations you would like to get off your chest?" The man asked absently, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he continued to carve something into the wall.

"He wants to speak to you." The man said as he held out the phone to John and then smiled when John couldn't move to take it, "I'm sorry Mr Holmes, John doesn't seem capable of coming to the phone right now. Is there a message you would like for me to pass on to him?"

The man stopped carving and turned to stare at John,

"He says that he'll see you soon." The man said before he ended the called and slid it into his pocket.

John felt tears burn his eyes and blur his vision. He so desperately wanted to hear Sherlock say that out loud, to hear his assurance that he was coming for him, that he would find him before this man did to him what he had done to all those women that he'd left naked and mutilated in some desolate field. He wanted Sherlock – the Sherlock Holmes – to tell him that he wasn't going to die like this, at the hands of a mad man.

"Hey now." The man said as his cold fingers brushed away the tears in John's eyes, "Don't cry. I want you to see this." And then John felt the man's weight leave his hips and then he felt himself being dragged across the ground. A hand slid beneath his head and forced it up slightly so he could see what the man had carved into the brick wall. It was the initials "JW".

The man rested John's head back on the ground and John just stared up at the black, starless sky. He gave up fighting the tears and simply let them roll down the sides of his face. It was all he could do, he couldn't speak or move or make any sort of sound... but he could cry.

It wasn't the first time in his life that he thought that he was about to die, but it was the first time that he had felt this disempowered. He didn't want to die like this, to be just another clue in Sherlock's case, another pawn pushed around in a game being played by men much smarter than he.

This wasn't how he was supposed to die. He was Captain John Hamish Watson; he had served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had been deployed in Afghanistan, was a trauma surgeon, a general practitioner of medicine and had saved the lives of hundreds of civilians and soldiers. He was important and this was not going to be the way that he died.

He refused to die like this.

"Don't worry," the man said as he came back into John's line of sight, "I promise it won't hurt a bit."

And then he slid a needle into John's neck and the world began to grow dark. John kept his eyes open for as long as he could, just staring up at that dark London sky wishing that he could see the stars.

As John began to fade and the world grew darker and colder around him he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice in his mind telling him that he'd see him soon.

John, Sherlock's voice rang out clear and strong inside John's head, I'll see you soon.

I'll see you soon.

I'll... see you... soon.

I'll...

And then the world went black.


	8. Clarity

_Two and a half hours of rainfall, stopped at approximately 7.15pm, alleyway is the only direct footpath leading from the recreational ground to the main road. Twenty-three distinct shoe prints, John has relatively small feet, wears plastic soled shoes, size eight and a half, slight weight displacement as he favours left side due to phantom pain in right limb._

_Drag marks extending six meters from the impact point to the street, slight blood pooling at the mouth of the alleyway, no more than 15ml, obviously not from arterial bleed so more than likely from a small laceration caused by a hand or insignificant appendage being dragged against this piece of broken glass. Minimal blood loss suggests heart rate was low – most likely attributed to a mixture of the paralytic and sedative__

"Would you like for me to lend you my eyes – metaphorically speaking - ?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He had been staring at the same patch of concrete for the past ten minutes and all that he was certain of was that this was the spot where John had been drugged and kidnapped.

"How did you find me so fast, don't you usually go to your OA meeting on a Wednesday?"

"Something really must be upsetting you," Mycroft said as he emerged out of the shadows and came to stand by Sherlock's side, "You only comment on my weight when you're in a foul mood."

"Maybe it's just because you're abdomen is looking startling bloated this evening."

"I rest my case."

Sherlock took a measured step away from his brother and pressed his palms firmly together, "Mycroft are you aware that I need something to stimulate my adrenal glands to increased the production and release of adrenaline into my blood stream to help to facilitate my thought process_"

"Sherlock are you aware that when you get nervous you start talking like a post graduate medical student and stop using full stops?"

Sherlock pressed his palms harder together,

"I was simply trying to illustrate the fact that I can either shoot up a few grams of cocaine or I can punch you in the face. Both would achieve the desired goal of making me feel better."

"Point made, however neither are going to happen under my watch."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped as he finally turned to stare at his brother, "It took me thirty-seven minutes to find this place – and I knew what I was looking for – how did you find me so fast?"

Mycroft flexed his fingers around the handle of his umbrella, seemingly hesitant to admit something,

"After I found out that you flew to Islamabad... without me knowing," he said tensely as if the admission had made his jaw lock, "I decided to put a GPS tracking device on your phone."

Sherlock's eyes flashed black with rage,

"How_"

"Don't act so outraged brother, you're lucky I haven't tagged you like a cat by now."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from rising to the bate,

"Do you often follow me? Or is it only when you're in the area looking for an all night bakery?"

The eerie smile quivered slightly but still remained on Mycroft's lips,

"This is a hot spot," Mycroft said as he waved in the general direction of the surrounding area, "drug dealers frequent this, and the surrounding, alleyways. They shift cannabis, heroin and crack cocaine by the kilo. I get an alert on my phone whenever you enter into an area that poses a potential threat to your sobriety_"

"My sobriety is not in danger, John is in danger_"

"Those things are not mutually exclusive."Mycroft said as he fixed Sherlock with a steady look, "I like your friend Sherlock, I think that he is a good influence on you, he keeps you fed and sober and clothed – apart for when you choose to grace the rooms of Buckingham Palace." Mycroft said with a little acidic twinge in his voice that clearly conveyed the idea that he wasn't quite over Sherlock roaming the royal halls without pants.

"But he also impairs your judgement. Because of him you make rash decisions."

"I don't."

"You are standing in the middle of an alleyway at almost one o'clock in the morning wearing nothing but a set of pyjamas and a coat. You aren't even wearing shoes."

Sherlock blinked before he looked down at his sodden sock clad feet. He hadn't noticed, he'd walked across almost six miles of wet London pavement and hadn't noticed that he wasn't wearing any shoes. He wasn't even wearing his own socks; they belonged to John that's why they were cutting off blood supply to his feet.

"I got a call Mycroft from a man, a serial killer who I have been trying to catch for months. He told me that he had my_ John, he told me that he had John and that he had injected him with a paralytic and that this was my last chance to find him. Forgive me if I didn't take pause to dress appropriately."

Mycroft shook his head slightly almost as if he was... disappointed,

"This entire case has been an embarrassment to the name of Holmes, you have embarrassed me and you have shocked me with your own ineptitude. You, the Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard's only consulting detective, the man who can solve a murder case by glancing at a police report, you have missed every clue offered to you in this case. You missed that killer's – quite frankly – pathetic attempt at a hidden message. You failed to anticipate that this man, who is obviously trying to attack you and the people that you care for, would go after John – when Irene Adler wasn't incentive enough - and that is why John is now in danger. You failed to protect your friend because you were too encumbered with emotion to see the situation clearly." Mycroft said, his tone rose to a level that almost sounded impassioned.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No." Mycroft said after a moment's hesitation.

"Mycroft_"

"I don't know where he is Sherlock, if I did then I wouldn't be having this conversation with you. I would have sent a group of special operatives to retrieve John, kill Irene Adler and bring in both this serial killer and Moriarty. But I don't know where he is – mainly because I don't care – but partly because I have far more important things to worry about." Mycroft took a step forward, the metallic tap of the tip of his umbrella chipping the concrete made Sherlock wince slightly,

"It's a puzzle, nothing more, nothing less. Take John and Irene out of the equation and simply look at the facts. Stop acting like a normal human being and start acting like Sherlock Holmes otherwise they'll both be dead and I shall be your sole ally in the world."

Sherlock stared at his brother for a moment before he closed his eyes and searched for the switch. As a child standing in the playground of his private school listening to the sneers and hisses of his fellow classmates as they mocked him, Sherlock had trained himself to turn off his emotions. It made sense to him, the only way to remain calm in the face of fear was to simply stop being afraid. All he had to do was visualise a switch, concentrate hard enough and then reach out and flick it off.

He did this now and the second he turned them off the fog began to clear, his fear began to fade and could finally see the door to his mind palace. He hadn't seen it in a while, not since he had started this case. The sight of the smooth dark wood and shiny brass handle made his body sing.

He stopped thinking about John being scared and hurt and alone. He stopped thinking about the sound his violin had made as it smashed against the wall or about what John had been about to say before he had been incapacitated. He stopped thinking about Irene.

His mind was clear. He reached out through the residual fog and grasped hold of the handle, even though this was all in his imagination, the metal still felt cool against his palm.

Calm settled over him as he turned the handle and opened the door.

Blinding light shattered the darkness and thoughts swarmed at him like flies, each one jabbing at him, biting at his skin, urging him to think, think, think_

_The women, each one with a slight abrasion above the left cheek bone from evenly distributed impact pressure rather than blunt force trauma which_ not important, it's part of the signature, it's his pathology._

_White power under the nails, not grainy, but fine like chalk_ no, not chalk, flour, refined flour. And then there was the purple stains on the feet and knees, the hair had signs of torn purple petals, some variant of vegetation or__

Sherlock opened his eyes and said, almost joyfully,

"Agrostemma githago."

Mycroft smiled, "My biological terminology is a little rusty. Care to elaborate?"

"I'm surprised brother," Sherlock said almost joyously as his moment of defined clarity and finely tuned deductive skills made his body and brain feel shiny and clean for the first time in months, "I appear to know something that you don't."

"Oh don't sound so gleeful." Mycroft said as he rolled his eyes, "If I was so inclined I could work out_"

"You do that," Sherlock said as he cracked the back off his phone, "Once you've worked it out you can meet me there and then all four of us can have a picnic." Sherlock said as he flicked the tiny GPS device in Mycroft's direction.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" Mycroft called as Sherlock began to walk in the direction of the main road.

"Home," Sherlock called back, "You can't fight a serial killer shoeless."

"Sherlock_"

"Thank you for the pep talk Mycroft," Sherlock said as the squelching sound of his sodden socks became distant, "It was inspiring."

Mycroft sighed deeply and, not for the first time in his existence, he wondered what it would be like to be an only child.

****

Even before he was fully conscious John could feel pain radiating from the base of his skull to the back of his eyes. His head felt light and for some time he simply floated in the pain, internally wincing when the dull ache became stabbing agony. He was making noises, deep throated groans and whimpering little moans but he wasn't conscious, not quite, not yet.

He was cold and he could feel his body trembling, shivering to increase his core body temperature. He wanted to curl himself into a ball, to hug his knees into his chest to stop these incessant shivers.

"Hush." He faintly made out the soft sound of a voice, "It's alright."

He tried to open his eyes but he couldn't, his eyelids were too heavy, they felt swollen.

A warm hand lightly rested against his cheek and then the side of his neck, its warmth and softness soothed him slightly.

"Shhh," he tried to say but his throat was too sore.

The hand stroked his hair away from his face and traced the fragile skin beneath his eyes.

"Shher..." he coughed a few times, "Sherlock?" He managed to slur.

Someone laughed_ no, a woman laughed. He could tell, he was coming into consciousness now and was fighting his way through the darkness and the pain.

"Men always reveal their darkest desires when they're drugged up. It's a shame I couldn't stick around to listen to Mr Holmes's inebriated revelations. Did he talk about me? Did he call out my name?"

John was winning the fight because his eyelids opened a crack and he saw a face blur before him.

"Are you missing him?" The voice cooed condescendingly as the hand played with his fringe, "I have to admit that I've missed him a little. But I'm sure he'll be here soon so don't you worry."

John tried to speak but the pain behind his eyes throbbed and he whimpered. Suddenly he felt his body moving, being slid across the ground. He tried to fight the hands that were moving him because every jolt sent sharp stabs of pain through his skull.

Just as he thought that he was about to start crying the pain abated as his head was rested against something soft and warm.

"He might have nicer hair but I have more comfortable thighs. I know that I'm no substitute but you'll have to make do with me for the moment." The voice said and John could feel the soft hand return to his hair.

"Do you two enjoy snuggling up on the sofa? I can picture it now. Does he like to be the big spoon or the little spoon?"

John turned his head so that his cheek was resting against the soft, warm thing. This time, when he tried, his eyes fluttered open and after blinking twice he was able to focus on the world around him. He soon realised that his head was resting in someone's lap, a woman's lap. His eyes travelled up, slowly tracing the dimensions of a woman's abdomen, chest, throat and...

"Hello Dr John Hamish Watson, you look terrible."

John said nothing, he simply stared into the eyes of Irene Adler.


	9. Philanthropy

John realised, as he stared unblinkingly at the woman in front of him, that he had never really looked at Irene Adler – not even the first time they had met. He had always been too busy watching Sherlock watch her to really notice her himself. But now, as he lay staring up at her, he started to see similarities between her face and Sherlock's.

They both had a light in their eyes, almost as if their inner intelligence and thought process burnt so bright that it couldn't help but shine through their irises. Her eyes were blue, darker than Sherlock's, but the similarity still remained. Both were deathly pale – appearing almost corpse like in the blinding sunlight – and both held a slightly sardonic lift to their lips, almost as if they were constantly amused by the utter ineptitude of all those around them.

John watched now as her lips curled into a full blown smile,

"Are you going to say something? Or have the drugs rendered you incapable of speech?"

John blinked; bringing himself back from the brink of his ponderings. He cleared his throat, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, before he said,

"Where are we?"

"Take a look." She said as she gently turned his head away from her face to their surroundings.

The room was large but made to feel claustrophobic and small by all the low hanging wooden beams and the massive wheel type contraption that sat in the middle of the floor. The walls were made from grey, sedimentary looking stone and the floor was covered in long, dark strips of wood. There were several small windows scattered around the room, each one letting in blinding early morning light. The air was musty and smelt like the inside of a garden shed.

John turned his eyes back to the massive wheel,

"Is that… are we…" he turned his head to look at Irene, "Are we in a windmill?"

She nodded and cast an eye around the room disdainfully,

"Not a functioning one but a windmill never the less. Not the most glamorous place to be held captive."

"What would've you preferred?"

She shrugged, "A dungeon of sorts."

Yet another similarity she and Sherlock shared: a warped sense of normality.

"How long have you been here?" John asked as his eyes traced the relatively ragged and dirty state of her clothes.

"About a fortnight. I was already being imprisoned by a group of IRA members in Dublin so everything has sort of rolled into one."

"Wait," John said as he tried to sit himself up but found that his head hurt too much, "This serial killer stole you from under a group of IRA men?"

Irene shook her head, "He didn't steal me, I had just gotten myself out of there and was heading for Paris when he comes up behind me and injects me with a sedative. The next thing I'm aware of is waking up here."

"How come you haven't been able to escape yet?"

Irene nodded her head in the direction of a camera that was fastened to the wall,

"They've been watching me constantly. Every time I attempt to do anything – no matter how discreet – one of them comes in and tasers me." And, to illustrate her point, she unfastened the first few buttons on her shirt to reveal several nasty looking spherical bruises and small, circle shaped gashes.

"Jesus." John muttered as he turned his head away and looked up at one of the wooden beams, "Who has us?"

"Well obviously there's Moriarty and then there's the androgynous looking, heterochromatic sadist who likes sticking needles in people."

"Do you know who he is?"

Irene shook her head,

"I think he's just a killer who Moriarty has commissioned to do his dirty work. He's a vicious little fucker, really enjoys hitting me with that taser gun, he lets me writhe around for a few minutes, his eyes shining with excitement and then just rips the barbs right out of my skin." Irene said as she subconsciously winced in remembrance.

John's eyes traced the curve of her neck and saw yellowish bruises – about the size of finger tips – marring her delicate skin. As his eyes travelled down the side of her left shoulder he saw a faint imprint of a set of teeth.

"This isn't going to end well is it?" John asked, more of a statement of fact than a question, as he continued to stare at Irene's abused flesh, "People don't kidnap the loved ones of someone to lure them to a secluded windmill just to have a chat."

"Depends on if they have a penchant for being melodramatic."

John's eyes slid from the teeth marks on Irene's shoulder to look her in the eyes. Although she – like Sherlock – kept an intricate mask fastened almost constantly around her face to conceal her emotions, John saw a flicker of resignation in her eyes and he knew, in that moment, that there was a distinct possibility that all three of them would die here.

"Don't worry," she said as she refastened her shirt, a smirk playing on her lips, "I won't let them hurt you."

John must have unknowingly made some sound of annoyance because Irene raised her eyebrow at him,

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You tutted. People usually don't tut without provocation."

John sighed, "I'm fed up of people treating me like I'm some sort of moron. Like I don't have the ability to take care of myself or make my own decisions. I might not be a genius or be able to work out what brand of shampoo someone uses just by looking at their thumbs, but I'm not an idiot."

"I take it we're talking about Sherlock?"

"Of course I'm talking about Sherlock. Before I met him my life was a lot less complicated. I never got kidnapped by serial killers, nobody strapped bombs to my chest, I never accidently ate a human toe because someone dropped it in a yoghurt pot and couldn't be bothered to take it out."

Irene chuckled and began playing absentmindedly with his hair again. John was still too drugged up and woozy to resist and so he simply lay there staring up at one of the wooden beams.

"I know how to take care of myself, I don't need Sherlock Holmes to ride in and rescue me."

"Doesn't mean that you don't want him to."

"You don't know what I want."

"Oh I think I do – and I definitely know what Sherlock wants."

"How can you possibly?" John asked as he finally sat up, the action made his head spin and for a few brief seconds he thought that he was going to pass out. He took in a few deep breaths before focussing his eyes back on Irene,

"How can you possibly know what Sherlock wants? You may have known him for a year or so but you've only spent a collective few hours with him. You haven't lived with him, you haven't had to deal with his bipolar type mood swings, or clean up after him, or cook for him, or wander around after him to make sure that he isn't doing something dangerous or illegal, or bail him out of prison when he's gone too far and irritated the wrong person. I've been doing all those things for almost three years and even I don't know what Sherlock wants or how he thinks or why he is the way that he is. How is it possible for you to have such insight into the dark recesses of his soul?"

Irene had been watching his little rant with a growing smile on her lips – one which almost irritated John to the point of violence. Irene rested her head against the wall and just stared at him for a long moment, her expression was a mixture of condescension and slight amusement.

"I asked you once before if you were jealous about the... connection that Sherlock and I share. You said no and I honestly think that you believed that, you forced yourself to believe the lie because the truth was just a little too painful to acknowledge."

She watched him for a few more seconds before she leaned forward and said quietly,

"Do you want to know what we did together in Islamabad?"

John felt his skin grow suddenly cold. There was a glint in her eye that stirred a sickening feeling in the pit of John's stomach. He didn't think that he could deal with her telling him that they'd had sex, he wouldn't be able to handle her – no doubt gratuitously detailed – descriptions of what she had done to Sherlock and what he had done to her.

Her words in the flat swirled through his mind:

I would have you right here, right now, until you begged for mercy twice.

Had she made him beg for mercy? The idea of her hands on him, trailing down his chest, tangled in his hair, tongue in his mouth, thighs hugging the sides of his hips...

It made John feel like his brain was being rubbed raw.

"I don't want to know."

"Oh I think that you do, I think that you've wanted to find out the answer to that question since you found out that I was alive. However, you couldn't ask Sherlock because that would open up doors that I don't think you're ready to walk through just yet."

"I don't want to know." John hissed as he pushed himself as far away from her as his lethargic body could manage.

"There was a lot of running away from men with machetes," Irene said, adjusting her position so that her spine was centred more comfortably against the wall, "we stole a couple of cars, drove through the night, did some more running and then we shared a packet of Walker's salt and vinegar crisps as we waited for my boat to come in."

"Don't mock me_"

"I'm not mocking you John." She said, almost as if she were talking to a small child who was having a tantrum.

"You think that we had sex. You think that after he rescued me from that terrorist cell he took me to some hotel and fucked me with the intensity of a man possessed. Or maybe you think that he couldn't wait to get me to a hotel, maybe he just thrust me up against a wall and had his way with me."

John tried to turn away from her but she stretched out her leg and impeded his movements by trapping his thighs beneath her calf muscle.

"It never happened John." She said, slowly annunciating each word, "I like Sherlock, I find his mind and his intellect sexy and his acerbic personality incredibly attractive. If Sherlock had come alone to my house the first time we met, if I hadn't known about you, or met you or seen the two of you interact, then I would have taken great pleasure in using Sherlock Holmes in all the most depraved ways that a woman can use a man. I would have loved to test his limits, to see how far I could push him before he snapped. I would have enjoyed finding out whether he liked to take his pleasure straight up or with a little pain."

Her eyes glinted again and it made John shudder, "But he didn't come alone and I met you and saw the way that he looks at you – at the way that you look at him."

She stared at him and, for a moment, John thought that he saw the edge of the mask slip slightly from her face,

"Love is not a thing that I like to mess with John. It comes around so rarely in life – for some it doesn't come at all. Only the most evil of creatures destroy an emotion that strong and, contrary to what you might think, I am not evil."

John looked at her and saw that she was in complete earnest, she wasn't mocking him... she was trying to confide in him.

"When we were waiting for my boat to come in, we just sat on this crumbling stone wall and watched the sun rise over the ocean. I was joking with him about you and about his life back at Baker Street and I watched as his face changed. He looked sad and tired – haggard even – as if the weight of the world was waiting to crush him when he returned to England."

She smiled and eyed John with a look that almost bordered on fondness,

"I think he knows how he feels about you, I think he's known for a while and he has resigned himself to the belief that you could never feel the same way. And, just like you have been rally against your own feelings, too afraid to talk to Sherlock about them, Sherlock has been doing the same. He would be your friend John, even though he wants more, he would be contented with just being your friend. And that, to me, suggests that this potential thing that you have is worth exploring."

John's mouth had grown very dry. Seemingly, each word from her had caused his heart rate to increase to the point of pain. His face felt warm and he knew that he was blushing bright red, not from embarrassment, but rather from discomfort.

"How do you know what he wants?" John asked, this time his voice had lost the accusatory edge.

Irene smiled a delicate, almost genuine, smile,

"We're similar. The connection that we share is not based on love – it's not even based on friendship – it's merely based on the similarities that we share. That first time we met it was like someone had put a mirror in front of my face," she said as she illustrated her point by holding up her hand and spreading her fingers so that she could see pieces of John's face and he could see fragments of hers.

"It was calming and easy to be around him. We think the same, our thoughts travel at relatively the same speed, we see the world, and the people in it, as a mere puzzle for us to solve. The main difference between us is the fact that he has you and I have no one."

She said this without remorse or pain, but rather as a simple statement of fact.

"When we get out of this – and I swear to you that we will because Irene Adler does not die in a windmill." She said disdainfully "When we get out of this I suggest that you have a sit down with Sherlock and tell him what's been going on in your head. Whether you two choose to start fucking is completely up to you however..." and her eyes slid to his and she smiled salaciously, "I would really like to watch."

John's blush had grown painful and he pressed his palms to his burning cheeks to try and cool them down.

"Promise me that if you make it out of this alive then you'll tell Sherlock how you feel."

John took his palms away from his cheeks,

"And what if I die?"

Irene's lips twitched into a smirk,

"Well I think that you know the answer to that. Unless you're a strong believer in reincarnation or rebirth then if you die your secret will be taken with you to the grave and Sherlock's heart will break with, not just the loss of his friend, but also from the pain of never finding out whether you felt the same way about him."

"Is it your intention to depress me?"

"Not my deliberate one. My deliberate intention is to get you to promise me that you'll talk to Sherlock_"

"Why does it matter to you?"

Irene shrugged, "I'm a philanthropist, I like helping people."

"I_"

"Just promise me," she said exasperatedly, "If I end up sacrificing myself to save your life – as any self proclaimed philanthropist should – I would like to know that I martyred myself for a reason. So promise me."

John swallowed, unable to break eye contact. If she was telling the truth - which John believed that she was - then all he could do was gain a new part of Sherlock rather than lose him altogether. It took him a moment to form the words before he said,

"I promise."

And for one brief, illogical – completely insane – moment, John half hoped that he would die so that he wouldn't have to fulfill the promise that he had just committed himself to.


	10. Manipulation

"What is it that you don't understand? I need a car, it doesn't need to be flashy, it doesn't need to have a radio. All it needs is four functioning wheels and a full tank of petrol."

The man behind the counter stared back stoned faced at Sherlock,

"I understand what you want sir, but I can't give you a car."

"Why not? I have money, look." Sherlock said as he thrust a handful of notes under the man's nose.

"I can't give you a car because you don't have a valid driver's licence."

"I don't need a valid driver's licence."

"The law says different_"

"The law is flawed and rife with gross inaccuracies, I should know, I work for the police department."

The man's eyebrows shot up to his hair line, "You're a policeman?"

Sherlock snorted, "Egotistical I might be, underachieving I am not. I didn't say that I was a policeman, I said that I worked for the police department – Scotland Yard to be precise, not that it matters because you're obviously not listening to what I have to say_"

"Sir," the man said as he popped another piece of nicotine gum into his mouth, "I cannot rent you a car if you don't show me your valid driver's licence and a secondary form of ID."

Sherlock stifled a sigh of annoyance. He had had a number of driver's licences over the years – some of them even legitimate – but after accumulating a few thousand pounds worth of speeding tickets, traffic violations and practically pissing off every policeman in London, he had been put on some sort of black list and had been indefinitely prohibited from driving any vehicle that moved faster than 5mph.

But then Sherlock did have his ways of getting around any sort legal impediment that prevented him from doing what he wanted. However he didn't have the time right now to contact his forger so instead he settled on using his most reliable – and accessible – tool...

"Your soon to be ex-wife recently started having sex with a younger man." Sherlock said after about four seconds of examining the man in front of him.

"Excuse me?" The man practically hissed – which was all the added confirmation that Sherlock needed.

"In the time that I have been standing here you've removed and replaced your wedding band four times suggesting that you and your wife have been going through a separation – her choice not yours – and that recently she's filed for a divorce and is waiting for you to sign the papers and end your marriage."

"How_"

"You take the ring off, hold it in your palm and then look down at your finger. It's obvious that you're trying to come to terms with the idea that soon your marriage will be completely dissolved. The fact that you keep putting it back on suggests that you don't want it to be – it's hardly a difficult deduction."

The man looked down at his hand briefly and Sherlock could tell that he was caught between wanting to hear more and wanting to punch Sherlock in the face.

"How did you know about the... um... younger man?"

Sherlock stopped himself from smiling – not wanting to appear too pleased with himself – "You recently got your ear pierced, the inflammation around the ring suggests that the your body is still trying to reject the foreign object. You've been working out, lifting weights to be specific, to try and increase muscle density to take on the physique of a younger man – most likely to replicate the body of the young man who your wife is currently having athletic sex with_

"Athletic_"

"Never mind," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand – they didn't have time for that – "Your movement is sluggish and you wince every time you move your arms which tells me that there is a build up of lactic acid in your muscles – caused by your recent weight lifting session – which suggests that you've been pushing yourself rather excessively of late, no doubt to meet some personally imposed deadline. It's obvious that you're trying to appear younger before your divorce is finalised so that you can prove to your wife that you can change and thus win her back. Well done, you were right, you can, however you're not going to do it by investing in a pair of stone washed jeans."

The man's eyes flickered with what looked like a mixture of hope and hesitation, "Are you some sort of psychic?"

"Psychics – just like ghosts, fairies and magic – don't exist."

"Then how can you know all this?"

Sherlock felt one of his headaches – brought about by the utter ineptitude of the rest of the human race – beginning to burn behind his eyes, "I observe, you should try it sometime. Anyway, that is not the point; ask me how you can get your wife back."

The man hesitated slightly before he asked, "How can I get my wife back?"

Sherlock – who was briefly encouraged by the fact that this man was so easily manipulated – said, "Your wife's lover is also sleeping with your daughter."

"What!" The man roared and Sherlock could see blood start to rise in his cheeks.

Sherlock sighed, not for the first time wishing that people could simply open their eyes and see what was obviously laid before them,

"Estimating your age against the age at which you got married means that your daughter is probably around twenty to twenty-three – roughly the same age as your wife's lover."

The man's mouth fell open so wide that his piece of gum fell out and onto the counter,

"She's just turned twenty-two, how the hell did you_"

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock snapped, his impatience starting to get the better of him, "All that matters is that today is Tuesday, your wife will be at work and your daughter will be at home_"

"How_?"

"You have dog hairs all over your overalls and a faint urine stain on the hem of your trousers so obviously you and your wife brought an errant dog a few years back. I'm assuming that because you and your wife are pathetically sentimental you share the dog between two houses. You have a schedule taped to the wall behind you detailing when and where the dog will be during the week. Today is Tuesday and the schedule states that Pongo – who I assume is your dog –is staying with Julia – who I assume is your wife – but is being looked after by Trish – who I assume is your daughter – because Julia is working until five tonight!"

Sherlock took in a deep breath. This really was getting incredibly tiring. Next time he would just Google how to hot wire a car and be done with it.

"I don't have time to explain to you how I know that your wife's lover is also sleeping with your daughter because I have my suspicions that he is currently doing your daughter as we speak and, if you have a hope in hell of catching them in the act I suggest that you run. Now."

The man just stood staring at Sherlock, his mouth still hanging open slightly, "But I don't see how that..." the man tried but then was rendered ineffable by his own stupidity and had to start again, "I don't see how that will help me get my wife back?"

"Oh for the love of God," Sherlock said as he slammed his palms down against the countertop in exasperation, "if you tell your wife that her lover is also doing your daughter then one could only assume that she would dump him and – taking in the sight of that stunning earring of yours – she'll be compelled to fall back in love with you, rip up the divorce papers and move herself – and Pongo – back in your house."

"That's great!" The man beamed like the proverbial village idiot.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "But none of this will matter unless you run to your wife's house right now and catch them in the act."

When the man did nothing but continue to stare vacantly at him, Sherlock made of show of looking at his wrist watch,

"You never know, he could be a premature ejaculator, he might be finished in sixty seconds. Tick, tock, tick, tock..."

The man's eyes darted wildly between Sherlock. When he had still made no move to leave Sherlock opened his mouth to start counting down the seconds,

"Forty-three, forty-two, forty_"

Suddenly the man bolted from behind the counter and ran from the shop and down the street.

Sherlock rested his head against the counter for a second, briefly basking in his trivial success. He was always right and the affirmation of this made Sherlock relax for the first time since he and John had had their... altercation in the flat. He flinched slightly as he unintentionally replayed the scene in his mind: John's anger – so potent it had seemingly took possession of all his limbs and features – the feeling of his violin being snatched from his hand, the ear splitting sound of splintering wood, John's quiet apology as he had slipped away, out of the flat and into the clutches of a sadistic...

This was counterproductive, Sherlock thought as his head snapped up from the counter and his mind abruptly shut off the memory of their fight. He had no time to dwell, to feel – dare he say – upset. Sherlock Holmes didn't get upset, he wasn't a child, it wasn't as if someone had taken his favourite toy_

Before he could dwell too much on that particular thought, Sherlock reached out and plucked up a car key from the cork board that hung above the cash register. He turned the key over in his hand and saw the licence plate number embossed on the plastic in Tipp-ex.

It didn't take him long to locate the small blue Honda to which the key belonged. The early morning sun was dazzling and he had to shield his eyes as he slid into the front seat. The leather upholstery was ice cold against his back and bottom and as he adjusted the rear view mirror he caught sight of residual crisp crumbs clinging to the creases in-between the backseat cushions. There had been a family in this car, Sherlock could still smell the sickly sent of apple juice and baby formula.

He rolled down the windows, despite the cold morning air, and glanced at his watch again:

It was ten to eight. He smiled, he was ahead of schedule.

****

As the sun set the temperature inside the windmill fell just below freezing. The bare windows and the stone walls seemed to suck in all the cold night air until both John and Irene were left shivering. The moon was full that night so the room was illuminated by beams of pale white light.

John's teeth were chattering and as he exhaled he could see his breath fog out before him like smoke. "That's it," John said as he pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter around him in a vain attempt to keep himself warm, "both my arse cheeks have now gone completely numb."

"Lucky you, I can still feel mine." Irene mumbled as she shifted uncomfortably.

"How have you been able to put up with this for two weeks?"

"I spent seven years living in Alaska when I was a child," Irene said as she closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, "that was cold, this is more of an inconvenient chill."

John turned his head to look at her. She was only wearing a thin floral blouse and a pair of jeans. In the pale light he could see the thousands of goose bumps that covered the expanse of her exposed chest and arms. Her body was trembling and John could hear the quiet sound of her teeth chattering. The cold had also caused her nipples to harden and John could see them pushing against the thin fabric of her shirt.

"Is that why it's so hard for you?" Irene asked, her eyes still closed, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"What?" John asked as he tore his attention away from her breasts.

"You're attracted to women. You like the shape of a woman's body, you like the curves and the softness. And yet, now you find yourself getting hard for a man who practically has the dimensions of a long plank of wood."

"I... How did you_?"

"I'm somewhat clairvoyant when it comes to my breasts, I can always sense when someone is looking at them. I remember you took a rather intense interest in them the first time we met – I don't think Sherlock was entirely sure what he was looking at."

Irene opened her eyes, the pale moonlight made them look almost as clear as polished sea glass, "Tell me what you find attractive about him."

"Who?" John asked in a pathetic attempt to deflect her question.

Irene's eyebrow arched in incredulity, "You find more than one man attractive? My, my John, you're turning out to be rather a dark horse."

John began bouncing his legs to try and increase the circulation to his numb feet,

"I'm not attracted to men."

"No, you're simply attracted to Sherlock and I want to know why."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Why not? It seems like the perfect thing for us to discuss. I'm gay, you're straight, we both enjoy fucking women and yet we would both like to fuck Sherlock. I think that's quite a conversation starter. We should take this opportunity to compare notes. I'm personally rather fond of his hair – there's always something incredibly sexy about a man who refuses to conform to the basic standards of personal grooming."

"He shaves." John said in Sherlock's defence.

"Don't deflect John." Irene admonished as a wicked grin spread across her face, "Are you seriously going to tell me that you've never fantasised about grabbing hold of handful of those crazed locks? It must be almost torturous to see him in the morning, wearing nothing but sleep creased pyjamas and seeing that hair of his looking insanely tangled."

John tried not to but now that she had brought it up it was impossible not to think about Sherlock in the morning, wandering out of the dark pit that was his bedroom, his eyes slightly vacant, cheeks flushed, hair tangled and...

"Is it the hair? Or is it that purple shirt that he wears_ or the coat! God forgive me, how could I forget about the coat."Irene asked, the amused tone in her voice betrayed just how much she was enjoying this, "Oh come on John, tell me what it is about Sherlock that makes you tingle in places that you shouldn't."

John was about to tell Irene – in no eloquent terms – to piss off, when a thin beam of light shone through the slit beneath the opposing door. Everything fell incredibly still and for a few brief seconds all John could hear was the sound of Irene's breathing.

Something creaked, perhaps a floor board behind the door, and then John heard the metallic sound of a key being slid into a lock and the snap of two deadbolts being pulled aside. Although he couldn't be sure, John thought that he saw Irene shift closer towards him. He swallowed against the fast forming thickness in his throat and watched as the door opened and synthetic light flooded the room.

A silhouetted figure stood in the doorway and it reminded John of all those Hammer Horror films he had watched as a child where shadows would elongate and contort the grotesque features of a monster to make it appear more than what it was. This was a different sort of monster though and as John's eyes adapted to the light he could make out the face of Jim Moriarty.


	11. This is the End My Only Friend

The air seemed to fall still. Moriarty didn't move – he didn't even seem to be breathing – he simply stared vacantly at John, almost as if he was looking through him and at the bare wall behind his head. He was clad in a dark blue suit, his feet were shoeless and as he padded across the room John could hear the sound of his socks softly swishing against the concrete. He stopped about a meter away and sat down cross legged on the floor. This close, John could clearly see his face and the dark shadows that fell across his cheeks seemed to swallow up his eyes making them look like two black chasms.

"I had hoped," Moriarty said as he played with the cuff of his suit jacket, "that you would have gotten the hint by now."

When he didn't elaborate John asked, "What hint?"

"That Sherlock Holmes is not a man that you should have as an acquaintance – let alone a close friend." Moriarty cocked his head like a quizzical puppy, "Why didn't you pack up and leave after that little incident at the swimming pool?"

John's mouth was extremely dry but he didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing him swallow, "I'm loyal."

Moriarty snorted, "Boring." He said in a sing song voice, "Loyalty isn't an attribute, it's a weakness. Martyrs are loyal, victors are selfish. If you took a page out of our dear Sherlock's book then you wouldn't be sitting in a windmill being used as leverage right now. But then where would you be? Who is John Watson without his Sherlock? Would you simply cease to matter?" Moriarty asked as he pouted at John in mock sympathy.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to kill him."Moriarty said as he stroked John's knee, "I'm going to get him to kill you." He whispered as he removed his hand and stood up.

John felt his skin grow clammy and suddenly the feeling of his clothes pressing against his body became sickeningly restrictive and claustrophobic.

"But I don't want to ruin the surprise until Sherlock gets here," Moriarty said as he peered out of one of the windows, "I've been planning this for a while and I don't want to lessen the drama by revealing to you what's going to happen. I want to see both of your faces; I've even invested in one of these."

Moriarty pulled out a small camcorder from inside his suit jacket. He must have pressed a button because suddenly the thing came to life and cast a blob of bright light across his face.

"Let me just zoom in." He said as he pointed the camera at John, "This can be my pre-performance recording. I'm going to edit it when all of this is done." He said as he slowly side-stepped his way around the room, taking in both John and Irene from different angles, "I'll add some emotive music and some special effects. It's going to be amazing." He sang with glee, "I'll send a copy to Sherlock so that he can play it over and over and over again. Maybe I'll get a film deal, a big blockbuster production... shame there won't be a sequel." He said with a sigh before he turned off the camcorder and put it back in his pocket.

John watched as Moriarty walked over and sat himself next to Irene – who had been staring impassively at the ceiling. He rested his head against one of the wooden beams that ran down the wall and laid his legs over hers, almost like she was some sort of cushion.

"Do you know the best bit... well, there are many best bits but I can't tell you about all of them yet can I? Otherwise I'd ruin the surprise, but the best bit as thus far is that Sherlock actually thinks that he's winning. He thinks that he's going to ride in here and outsmart me and escape with both you and Irene in tow. It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic." Moriarty said almost sadly as he pulled out an apple from his trouser pocket and began buffing it against his knee.

No one spoke for a few moments and all that broke the silence was the sound of Moriarty munching on his apple. John watched as Moriarty stared intently at Irene.

"Do you want a bite?" He asked as he held the apple to her lips.

Irene continued to stare up at the ceiling although John could see her lips twitch slightly towards the piece of fruit.

"Bless her," Moriarty said as he took the apple away, "I haven't really been feeding her very much, I'm a bit of a careless host." He said conspiratorially to John, "I had a rabbit as a child but I constantly forgot to feed it or give it water. I was a forgetful child. I forgot to bring it's hutch inside when the weather got colder and so it froze to death. Are you cold Irene?"

Irene made no move to suggest that she had heard him instead she just continued to stare up into the darkened recesses of the roof.

Something pinged and John watched as Moriarty bit down on the remaining apple to keep it in his mouth and used his – now free hands – to pull out his phone and scroll through his messages.

"Oh good," He said around the apple. He looked up at John, the light from the phone's screen made his eyes shine with excitement, "Sherlock's here." He bounced up off the floor and threw the half eaten apple out of the window, "I was hoping that he'd arrive at the break of dawn. The lighting would have been better."

Moriarty looked out at the blackened night sky disappointedly before he reached into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out a gun, "Get up." He said to both Irene and John.

When neither of them moved he rolled his eyes in exasperation, "Don't be difficult, I've been waiting for this for months and now the night has finally arrived I don't want either of you to spoil it by being defiant." Moriarty approached John, the gun – which had been pointed at his head – slowly travelled down to point in the direction of John's stomach,

"Dr Watson how painful is a gunshot wound to the abdomen?"

John clenched his jaw to prevent it from trembling, "I wouldn't know, I got shot in my leg."

Moriarty stared at him vacantly, almost as if he were dreaming, "Would you like to find out?" John watched as Moriarty's finger curled around the trigger, his fingernail starting to turn white from the pressure of pushing down...

"Are we planning on leaving any time soon?" Irene asked as she unsteadily got to her feet. She swayed slightly – no doubt from a combination of hunger and the cold. She held her hand out to John but kept her eyes on Moriarty, "Shall we?"

Moriarty stared at her for a few seconds before he smiled and gestured with the gun towards the open door,

"After you."

John reached up and took Irene's hand. He hadn't realised that his legs were shaking until he got to his feet and found it almost impossible to stand. It was the adrenaline, he could feel it, as cold as ice, running down the length of his spine and pumping into his organs. Whether it was because she was also finding it hard to stand – or because she knew that John wouldn't be able to make the journey alone – Irene linked her arm with John's as they made it out of the room.

After a rather laborious climb down an incredibly narrow staircase, John and Irene found themselves in another dark room facing another locked door.

"Pull the deadbolts back and open it." Moriarty instructed from somewhere close behind John.

Irene did as he said and, with a hand that only trembled slightly; she reached up, slid the deadbolts out of the locks and flung the door open.

The freezing night air hit their faces and John felt both himself and Irene shiver simultaneously. All that lay before them was a large empty field, with a border of black trees that boxed them in. It was too dark to see very far but John thought that he could see the faint outline of two figures standing a little way off in the distance.

"Excuse me," Moriarty said almost bashfully as he nudged his way towards the wall, "I forgot to turn on the lights." Something clicked and suddenly ten massive stadium lights, that encircled the area, came to life. The light was blinding and it completely illuminated the field and the surrounding trees.

"Why don't you wave?" Moriarty asked as he waved enthusiastically at the two men who were standing a dozen or so meters away from the windmill. Even though he was too far away to see clearly, John could tell by the trademark hair and coat that Sherlock was one of the men.

A light nudge at the small of his back – no doubt from the tip of a gun – sent both John and Irene into the night. The grass was frozen solid and powered white with frost, it crunched beneath their feet as they wandered closer to the centre of the field. John quickly realised that the man standing next to Sherlock – who had his hands on Sherlock and was holding a gun to the left side of his temple – was the same sadistic bastard who had ambushed John in the alleyway. But John wasn't paying much attention to him. He was staring at Sherlock.

He watched as Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned him from head to toe – do doubt looking for signs of injury or damage – his eyes rested briefly on the spot where John and Irene's arms were interlinked before moving on to scan John's chest and shoulder and… Sherlock was looking at everywhere apart from John's eyes.

Was he still angry about the argument? About John smashing the violin? Surely he couldn't be so petty as to actually be sulking now when there was a real likelihood that John was going to die... but then maybe that was the reason. Maybe Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye without betraying the fact that he knew that it was all over and that there was nothing that he could do to save John.

"Sherlock." John said in desperation.

His eyes finally found John's. They stared at each other for what felt like an age and the longer their eyes remained locked the calmer John became. Everything was okay, Sherlock had a plan – John could see it in the way his irises seemed to glow with excitement. A bad hand might have been dealt but the game wasn't over yet and if John hadn't felt so tired or so cold or so frightened he would have jumped for joy.

"I must say Sherlock," Moriarty said, effectively forcing Sherlock to break eye contact with John, "You've been incredibly slow these past few months. I left you so many clues, gave you ample opportunity to work out what was going on but you just... didn't... quite... twig. I should have just sent you a map. What was it that finally gave me away?"

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds before he said, "There were traces of Agrostemma Githago on the feet and knees of all the victims."

"Ah yes, I'm glad you picked up on that, it took me ages to grow all those flowers." Moriarty said as he slowly circled Sherlock. He stopped in front of him and just stared unblinkingly at his face, "Here," he said as he handed the camcorder to the man by Sherlock's side, "Start recording this."

The man removed his hold from Sherlock's arm and pulled the gun away from his head so that he could turn on the camcorder and manipulate it with two hands. "Action!" He said as he pressed a button and the machine pinged to life.

Moriarty took a few steps back from Sherlock and stood in between John and Irene. He cupped the backs of their heads with his hands and began stroking their hair softly,

"You're a fan of games aren't you Sherlock? Have you ever heard of the card game called Seven Devils?"

"Do you really want me to answer or are you just employing rhetoric to increase the dramatic tension of your little monologue."

Moriarty's soft strokes turned savage and he roughly yanked both Irene and John's heads back, making them hiss loudly in pain, "Don't. Test. Me. Sherlock." He said staccato, "Otherwise I shall rip off both of their heads and the game will be over before it's even had a chance to begin."

John could see Sherlock's jaw clench shut.

"Good boy," Moriarty cooed as he went back to softly stroking the back of John and Irene's heads, "The wonderful thing about Seven Devils is that there's no re-deal, no second chances. If you make just one little mistake you lose – very much like life." Moriarty took his hand away from Irene's head and placed it on John's chest,

"You had a chance to kill me once but you didn't because you didn't want to blow up your friend. You lost your round and now it's my turn."

"You did all this just to kill me?"

Moriarty shook his head, "As I told you before Sherlock, I'm going to kill you anyway, but until then I want break your mind."

Sherlock seemed unmoved by Moriarty's admission; in fact, he looked a little bored,

"So if you're not going to kill me then you're going to kill them? Wait, let me guess," Sherlock said in mock excitement, "you're going to make me chose which one to save and which one to die? It's hardly original."

"Do you really think that I'd drag you all the way out here for that?" Moriarty tutted, "You wound me Sherlock, I'm an evil genius not a naughty school boy, I have no intention of making a remake of "Sophie's Choice". This," he said as he extended out his arms and circled a few times, "This is the damnation of Sherlock Holmes."

"That's the problem with evil geniuses; they have a penchant for being drama queens."

Moriarty ignored him and instead slowly bent down, pulled up his trouser leg and untied the gun that was fastened to his calf. It was a revolver and he opened up the chamber to show Sherlock that there were two bullets inside. He snapped the chamber shut and then threw the gun to the ground, just shy of Sherlock's left foot.

Sherlock picked it up and clasped it securely in his hand, "So what are we going to do? Walk twenty paces and see who has the quickest reflexes?"

Moriarty smiled an ugly, heart-freezing, smile at Sherlock, "You're going to kill Irene Adler and John Watson yourself. Two bullets for two brains."

John watched as Sherlock's body became very still – it was obvious that he hadn't been expecting that. He quickly recovered and said, "And exactly why would I do that? What's to stop me from putting a bullet in your brain?"

Moriarty shrugged as he pressed the gun he was holding to the side of his own head, "Just from a purely mathematical stand point it would be extremely unlikely for you to deliver two fatal shots – using only two bullets – without getting yourself killed."

John watched in horror as Sherlock mimicked Moriarty and pressed the gun to the side of his own head, "What if I'd rather take a bullet?"

"You wouldn't do that."

"Why not? There doesn't seem to be an incentive, either way they both end up dead."

"Your incentive is that either you kill them quick and painlessly by putting a bullet through their skulls or... Alexander kills them slow and torturously by cutting off tiny pieces of them until they either bleed to death or die of shock."

John watched as Sherlock's face grew deathly pale and as the colour drained from his face so did the light from his eyes...

"Wait a minute." John said suddenly, "This is completely insane..."

"Of course it is; I'm a mad man." Moriarty sang, "But it's also perfect." Moriarty said as he walked over and pressed his forehead against John's, "He'll kill you out of mercy." He said in a mock whisper, "There's no way that Sherlock could stand there and listen to my pet butcher his little puppy. He'd hear you yelp and cry and scream for him to help you and it would destroy him. But then, if he puts a bullet in your brain he'll have to live with the fact that he killed you and that will ruin him as well."

Moriarty slid his arm around John's shoulder and turned to face Sherlock again,

"But you're going to do the right thing aren't you Sherlock? You're going to kill Dr Watson so that he doesn't have to suffer. And then you'll go home and sink into a pit of despair, replaying this moment over and over and over again. That's one of the problems of having such a good memory or – what is it that you call it again? – Your "Mind Palace"? You'll get to capture the image of John's face just before you pull the trigger and the image of his body as the life drains out of it."

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's as Moriarty spoke, almost as if he was already seeing the images flash before his eyes.

"Maybe you'll last a day or so, before you start shooting up again just to make your mind go blank. And I'll leave you like that for a few months, just letting you circle that proverbial drain and then," Moriarty said dramatically, "When you least expect it, I'll send you a copy of the recording that Alexander is filming right now. And it'll just be too much for you… and not long after that it'll be… bye, bye Mr Holmes. That housekeeper of yours will find your brains splattered all over the walls and they'll bundle you up and take you to Bart's where that sorry little thing…Molly is it? Well, she'll cry for you. But no one else will because you would have already killed the only person who truly loves you!"

Moriarty clapped his hands together gleefully, "There's a sort of poetic licence to the whole thing don't you think?"

In all the time that he had been speaking, Sherlock had been staring intently at John, his eyes boring into his. At first John thought that he had completely shut down and that he was simply staring through John… but then he caught the sight of movement coming from his right, from… Irene? And before John could turn his head to look Sherlock made a subtle movement of his head and the message was as clear as if Sherlock had actually said the words out loud: Keep your eyes fixed on me John.

"I see you've left me with no choice." Sherlock said hoarsely and John felt a spark of excitement flutter in his chest because he knew that Sherlock was lying. He watched as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair which – to anyone else – would appear to be a sign of agitation but John knew differently and, sure enough, as Sherlock brought his hand away from his hair John saw something tiny and metallic glint in the light.

"I want… I want to kill John first." Sherlock said, directing his statement at Moriarty.

As he spoke John felt Irene slide something small and cold into his palm. He traced the thing with his fingers and realised that it was one of her earrings. Before he could explore it further he felt hands on his shoulders forcing him to kneel in front of Sherlock. The ground felt hard and cold against his knees and for one brief, ridiculous, second he thought that out of all the times he had fantasised about kneeling in front of Sherlock, this was never how he had imagined it.

John frantically felt around the dimensions of the earring in his hand, searching for something, for anything that he could turn or twist or press... A button! He just felt it, the tiny bump of a button sticking out of the surface. He didn't know what it would do if he pushed it, nor did he know when or what he should do with it, but he was willing to trust in Irene and take his lead from Sherlock.

He did this now, staring into Sherlock's eyes as he raised the gun and pointed it at John's head. He searched his eyes but he saw nothing. He searched his face but saw nothing. Sherlock was telling him nothing, his face was blank, his eyes vacant and resolved and as he pulled back the firing pin from the revolver John experienced a moment of sickening fear. Perhaps what he was feeling wasn't a button after all but rather just part of the design and that Sherlock wasn't acting he was serious and the roughness of his voice and the trembling of his lips were just involuntary acts of fear and that Irene had placed this piece of her jewellery into his hand as a way of… what? Comfort? So that he felt someone or something with him in his last few moments.

He stared at the gun and then back at Sherlock. He watched as his lips parted and then heard Sherlock say, "John," and his voice was rough and his eyes looked tortured and John knew that this was it, that he was going to die; that Sherlock was going to have to kill him.

John swallowed. He had to tell him, he had to say that it didn't matter and that he forgave him and that he didn't blame him for everything that had happened and that he was sorry that he had broken his violin and had been acting like such a shitty friend lately and that he loved him. John opened his mouth because he had to say it, and despite the sound of his blood pumping through his ears and the thickness of his throat and the tightness of his chest he just had to say it. Because this was it, this was the last moment of his life and he just couldn't die without telling Sherlock that he...

"Press down now and aim for the east." Sherlock said before he clenched something in his own hand and threw it in the direction of Alexander.

Smoke exploded and an errant shot rang out. John pressed the thing in his hand and threw it in an easterly direction like Sherlock had told him to. More smoke filled the air and John could faintly make out Irene throwing a similar devise. He was blinded by the smoke and he coughed as he wildly searched for Sherlock.

Another shot and this time it must have made impact because someone... a man... Sherlock screamed out in pain.

"Sherlock...!"

"Run John!" Sherlock said and John could hear that he was in pain.

John couldn't move, he couldn't leave Sherlock there but then two hands tugged at his jacket and he turned to come face to face with Irene. Before he could do or say anything Irene began forcibly dragging John away from the smoke, away from the mad men and away from Sherlock.


	12. What If?

The world was dark and cold and quiet and the only sound that John could hear was the blood in his ears and the constant impact of his feet on the frozen floor. John didn't know where he was going, all he knew was that he had to run, Sherlock had told him to run and so that is what he was doing. He was running away from the field and from Sherlock, from his friend who had been shot, who was probably bleeding to death right in front of the man whose seemingly sole purpose in life was to destroy Sherlock's life.

There was no coherent thought in his mind, only flashes of images and words and sounds: _Sherlock's face... Run John! ...Smoke, thick and dry, clogging his airways, making it hard to breathe... Run John! ...Two gunshots, first one misfired, second one made contact... Sherlock's laboured breathing, his voice strained and sharp with pain... Run John! ... Run John! ... Run John!_

The forest was pitch black and as they ran John's limbs sporadically smashed into unseen tree trunks and bushes, low hanging branches clawed at his face and unearthed roots caught his feet almost vindictively. John's hand felt sweaty in Irene's but he clung on for dear life as they hurtled through the darkness, he was afraid that if he let go he would stop being tethered to the world and the shadows would simply steal him away.

He didn't know how long they'd been running but it was longer than he had ever run before. It was the adrenaline that was keeping him going, John could feel it in his blood and muscles. It buzzed inside him like electricity and John knew from experience that the second he stopped moving its effects would start to wear off and his energy levels would crash harder than a falling plane. But he couldn't keep going, not like this, not at this frantic speed because his heart would explode. He needed to stop.

A few seconds later, almost as if Irene had heard his thoughts, she finally stopped running and at last let go of his hand. They both bent at the waist and gulped down shuddering lungfuls of freezing night air.

"Where..." John began but the overwhelming metallic taste in his mouth made him cough a few times before he could continue, "Where are we going? Do you have some sort of plan?"

Irene breathed in heavily through her nose before she stood up straight,

"Look around John, what can you see?"

John, unable to stand straight just yet because of the powerful stitch in his side, raised his head slightly and took in the sight of their surroundings. They were in a clearing, half illuminated by the light of the moon. Trees only encircled a portion of the area and there was a good fifty to sixty feet of empty space that simply slipped off into darkness. Through the shadows John could see pin pricks of light. At first he thought that they were stars but he quickly realised that they were evenly spaced and glowing yellow rather than white.

As John's breathing and heart rate slowed he could faintly make out the sound of distant traffic. They were close to a motorway. Before John could ask Irene how she'd known how to get to the main road he spotted something metallic glinting in the moonlight. He turned his head and saw a blue Honda parked just to the left of a large oak tree.

"What... why is there a car in the middle of the forest?"

Irene shot him a look of complete and utter incredulity, "I know you're in mild shock but I need for you not to act like an idiot."

It took him a few minutes of looking back and forth between Irene and the car before John made the connection,

"Sherlock left it there?"

Irene clapped three times in a mock applause before she headed towards the car. It had obviously been left unlocked because Irene was able to open up the boot without using a key. John watched her rummage around in – what appeared to be a canvas bag – before he asked,

"But how did you know that it was here?"

"John_"

"And don't tell me that I'm acting like an idiot because that isn't an idiotic question, it's reasonable for me to question how it's possible for you to find a car parked in the middle of a forest, in the dark without a compass or a fucking map. Or, while we're on the subject, question how you and Sherlock knew that you were going to smoke bomb yourselves out of that situation? He didn't even look at you and yet you were both almost working in perfect synchronicity. So I can only assume that either you both pre-planned this or you and Sherlock share some sort of telepathic connection."

Irene sighed deeply before she slammed the car boot shut and rested herself against it, "Is there a chance that we could talk about this in the car?"

John unintentionally backed away, "Why... we can't just drive away."

"Yes we can, Sherlock deliberately left the key in the ignition for us to do just that."

"But he's hurt, he's been shot! We can't just leave him to die_ he could already be dead."

"Well then what's the point of risking our lives to retrieve a corpse? And don't give me that look John, I'm not being heartless I'm simply being pragmatic." Irene said as she walked around and pulled open the driver's side door. Seemingly without even having to look, she located a piece of paper tucked beneath the seat and quickly scanned it.

"Have you ever played "What If?"?" She asked after she had finished reading whatever was written on the page

John blinked in confusion, "The party game? Where someone describes an imaginary scenario and you have to say how you'd respond?"

Irene nodded, "Do you remember last Christmas when Sherlock was continually texting someone on his phone?"

"How did..." John began but then quickly realised where this was going, "He was texting you?"

Irene nodded again, "He said that he was being forced to spend the day socialising with a group of aggravating ignoramuses."

John bit the inside of his cheek to keep his annoyance in check, "He spent the day with me, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft."

"I'm sure he wasn't referring to you." Irene said with an amused smirk, "But anyway, I received a text from him that simply read: "Have you ever yearned for an apocalypse that wipes out the entirety of the human race just so you can be spared the torture of playing party games and engaging in social niceties?" – I suppose that was his way of wishing me a merry Christmas. Anyway, I piggybacked off his text and brought up the game "What If?" and told him that that game could be rather interesting. He said that he doubted it, I took that as a challenge and thus had to prove him wrong."

John couldn't help but smile slightly as he realised what she was leading up to, "Don't tell me that you discussed what you would do if you were kidnapped by a serial killer?"

"No..." Irene said as she shook her head emphatically, "We didn't just restrict it to serial killers. We also discussed the possibility of psychopaths, various military operatives, terrorist cells and people suffering from a drug induced psychosis."

John rubbed his hand over his eyes, even now he could clearly picture the image of Sherlock draped across the sofa texting while the rest of them watched "It's a Wonderful Life" and ate copious amounts of Twiglets. When John had asked him who he was texting, Sherlock had simply shushed him as he texted furiously in response to what his correspondent had just said.

"You're not normal." John muttered to himself.

"Who? Sherlock or myself?"

"Both of you."

Irene seemed to swell with pride, almost as if he had just given her a compliment rather than an insult, "Anyway, over the course of that afternoon we outlined detailed rescue plans for specific locations and situations. I told him that an ex-lover of mine – who used to work for MI5 until she met a rather untimely end in Prague – gave me a pair of diamond earrings that doubled as explosive smoke bombs. Sherlock seemed to get rather excited by this idea and asked me to invest in a set for him."

Irene smiled at the memory, "I said that he was too manly to pull off diamond studs so instead I suggested that he simply conceal the device in that gorgeous hair of his." Irene raised her eyebrows, "Can you deduce from the empirical evidence presented to you what happened next or do I need to break it down further for you?"

"No I think I can keep up." John said a little tersely, "But what about the car?"

Irene sighed in exasperation, "Sherlock shouted at you for you to throw your device east and he threw his south, the north side of the field was completely blocked off by densely packed trees which left only the west side as a viable escape route. I assumed that he was trying to convey the idea that he had parked the car somewhere to the west of where we were standing."

John gaped at her incredulously, "How could you possibly know that? There's no way you could have... that was a blind leap of faith backed up by complete and utter bollocks."

Irene knocked her knuckles against the car window, "It worked didn't it. Now, we really must get going."

"Where?"

Irene waved the piece of paper at John, "We also discussed what we would do if one of us got injured or if we got separated. We agreed that if we were on stable ground we would leave a note in a car – or other method of transportation – instructing the other where to go. Obviously the rules changed if we were sea or airborne."

"Well of course, obviously." John muttered.

"Would you like to hear what Sherlock has to say? Will that convince you to get into the car and stop acting like a four year old?"

John ignored her little comment and simply nodded his assent. Irene looked down at the note and read,

"Irene, I'm assuming if you're reading this note then you and John have found the car – if John is not with you then simply disregard the rest of this note. If neither of you are in need of immediate medical attention then take the car to the Premier Inn off the first exit of the motorway. There's a key card in the glove compartment, the room is 1245. If I'm dead then enjoy the room – it's paid up until Sunday – if I'm alive, then wait for me, I shouldn't be far behind. Sherlock."

Irene looked up at John after she had finished reading, "If he is alive then he will find a way of meeting us at that hotel. If he was shot – which I can't be sure of – but if he was shot then he'll need you to attend to him. He packed your medical case in the boot along with an IV and suture kit. He's planned this through; he prepared for every possibility."

John stared at her from a long moment, he felt internally torn, "But what if he's dead or dying?"

Irene held his gaze, "We also discussed what would happen if you were involved. He told me that, if given the choice between saving him and saving you, I was to choose you. Now, he came to get you, he knew the risks; he knew what he was facing that's why he factored in that possibility into his note. He wanted to save your life and – with my help – that is exactly what he has done. I'm not going to let you go back and get yourself killed because then all of this would have been for nothing. So we're going to get in this car and drive to the hotel and wait to see if Sherlock shows up. If he does then we can all celebrate by linking arms and walking off into the sunset."

"And if he doesn't?" John asked.

Irene's jaw tensed and her eyes remained fixed on John's but she didn't say anything, there was really nothing to say. If Sherlock was dead then the world, at least as far as John was concerned, would forever fall silent.

"Get in the car John." Irene said at last as she slid into the driver's seat.

When John still hadn't approached the car she continued, "You are either going to get in this car of your own freewill or I am doing to drag you in by the hair."

She didn't appear to be joking and, considering there was nothing else for him to do, John had no other choice but to cross the clearing and slid into the passenger seat.


	13. Do Not Disturb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So yes, I suppose an explanation/warning is required for this next chapter. Although it was never my intention to write an M rated Fanfiction, I starting writing this chapter and it became... um... not T rated. So I decided instead of completely rewriting it I might as well change the rating.
> 
> As I said in my first author's note, this is likely to be my first and last Fanfiction so I might as well try my hand at everything and go out with a bang rather than the proverbial whimper.
> 
> Although this chapter isn't firmly seated in M rated territory, future chapters probably will be. If you're one of the lovely reviewers - such as kitmerlot1213, Sunskull and deegee10 - who started reading this fic when it was still a T rating, then I hope that the change of rating won't put you off.
> 
> Now, back to John and Irene...

The hotel was cheap looking with its threadbare green carpets and poorly painted red walls. The lighting was too bright and it made John's eyes ache and his head throb. In the dining room – which was attached adjacently to the reception area – John could see a few haggard looking couples eating soggy fish and chips while they stared despondently at one another. A television was nailed onto the far wall, it was playing, what appeared to be, advertisements on a loop: smiling, white toothed people laughing and enjoying life because they had found the wonders of Coke Zero or adult nappies.

There was a mirror opposite the entrance and as John and Irene walked passed he caught a glimpse of himself. He looked terrible, in fact, he didn't even look alive. The skin under his eyes looked black and his face appeared to have the same complexion as a corpse. Irene looked just as bad, however her clothes appeared to be far more creased than his. They looked like they had been sleeping rough for days and were in need of several hours of uninterrupted sleep and an intravenous drip.

There was no one at the reception desk so Irene and John were able to slip across the lobby and up the first flight of stairs unnoticed. They climbed in silence and John kept his eyes on his feet, too tired to continue surveying his surroundings. They crossed the landing, passing dozens of doors and the sound of breathy sleeping. It wasn't that late, maybe just gone midnight, but John felt as if he had been awake for days. The adrenaline had worn off and his energy levels were beginning to crash.

They reached their door and Irene slid the key card out of her pocket and slotted it into the electronic scanner. The red light turned green but before she could push the door open John held onto the handle.

He just stood there, head down, hand clutching the handle for what felt like hours. Every minute felt like an hour, every hour felt like a day and he was so tired but he couldn't open the door yet. He couldn't open the door and obliterate whatever semblance of hope he still had. He had been hoping, the entire drive here, that when he opened the door to their hotel room he'd see Sherlock sitting on the bed, face smeared with mud, coat badly stained with grass and dirt, possibly bleeding but alive, definitely alive. He'd scan John from head to foot before he'd open his mouth and say something so completely insensitive, so utterly Sherlock, that John would want to punch him in the face.

John took several steps forward and pressed his ear to the thin wood. Nothing. He heard no movement or breathing, no sound that indicated that anyone was on the other side. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door,

"I don't think he's in there." John said, and even in his own ears he sounded heartbroken.

"Well we can't be sure until we open the door." Irene said as she slid her hand over his. Slowly she pressed down and the door opened with a soft snick.

No light spilled out of the crack they had just created and as Irene pushed the door completely open John stared into the darkness of a cold, empty room.

"It doesn't mean that he isn't going to show up at some point." Irene said but John could barely hear her voice, he just stared blankly at the shadow cloaked bed where he had envisioned Sherlock sitting. Irene was still talking but all John could hear was the pressure behind his ears.

That pleasant vision of Sherlock sitting warm and safe was replaced with the image of him crawling across a frozen field, his hand clutching his stomach as blood trickled from beneath his fingers. He saw Sherlock trying to claw his way to safety, only to be dragged back by the hand of Jim Moriarty_

Suddenly John's eyes started to feel hot and itchy and his throat grew tight. He was about to cry and he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to cry – especially not in front of Irene – but in that moment that seemed to be the only thing that he could do. He was about to cry because the second he had opened that door and had seen nothing but darkness, the tiny shred of hope that John had been clinging onto had been snatched away from him, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

"I think," Irene said loudly as she placed her hands on John's shoulders and shoved him into the room, "That I'm going to have a shower." She flicked on the lights and forced John to sit down on the bed, "You don't mind do you? Only I haven't had proper wash for almost a month."

John was incapable of answering because a massive lump and settle at the back of his throat and as he swallowed he felt the first few tears stain his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away and glanced at Irene. She wasn't looking at him. She was continuing to talk to him as she hurriedly grabbed a towel from the cupboard and removed her shoes but she was deliberately not looking at his face. John realised, after a moment, that she was trying to maintain his dignity by not being an audience to his break down. He felt a surge of affection for her in that moment but this only made him cry harder because his reserve had been rubbed raw by the events of the past twenty-four hours and every emotion felt like lemon juice on an open wound.

"I like to take my time." Irene informed him, subtly conveying her dual meaning, as she slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

John waited until he heard the sound of the shower running before he finally let out the sob that had been building in his chest since he first saw Sherlock point the gun at his head. He pushed himself back on the bed and curled himself in ball. The sheets smelt musty and John could see that there was a brownish stain marring the left corner of the duvet. He let himself cry, keeping as quiet as he could, as he listened to the monotonous sound of the water hitting the floor in the shower room.

His tears wet the duvet and he had to keep moving his head so that the side of his face wouldn't stick to the cheap fabric. He couldn't think about Sherlock, couldn't even begin to entertain the idea that he could be dead – however, as the events of the evening played out that unbearable possibility seemed to be getting more and more likely. He couldn't think about anything and as his sobs rung the last of the energy from his body John felt his heart rate slow and his consciousness slip away from him until, mercifully, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...

At first John didn't know why he had woken up. He was still bone tired and the skin around his eyes itched in protest as his lids slid open. He blinked away the fuzziness and stared blankly at person lying next to him. It took him a moment to realise that it was Irene, at some point in the night she must have climbed into bed with him. Strands of her dark – still wet – hair were draped across the pillow and half of her face was covered up by the duvet.

John stared at her for a moment, unsure why he also wasn't still dead to the world. He must have heard something. Maybe people talking in the hallway as they passed by or perhaps Irene had shifted under the covers beside him. It must have been something like that because the room was still and silent now.

He turned, stretching his limbs and spine. All of his muscles ached fiercely so he gave up and simply collapsed back against the pillows. From his new angle John could see through the bare window on the right side of the room, it was letting in lines of pale, grey early morning light. John wasn't sure how long he had been asleep but it couldn't have been more than six, or seven hours. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and then closed them completely when the tug of sleep became too powerful to resist. The bed was warm and the surrounding air was freezing so he burrowed deeper under the covers and allowed himself to drift.

He didn't have to worry when he was sleeping. There were no crazed gunmen to fight, no devastating – possibly ruinous – feelings to declare, no potential funerals to plan_

Suddenly the duvet was ripped from off the bed and freezing air hit John's bare feet and the exposed skin of his back. John shot up, his head spun slightly from the sudden rush of blood to his brain but he was still able to clearly see, a rather bedraggled looking, Sherlock Holmes standing at the bottom of the bed, the duvet clutched in his hand.

John opened his mouth to speak but the sight of Sherlock had rendered him practically ineffable. Even in the dim light John could see that Sherlock was hurt, a mixture of dry and wet blood marred the skin of his hands and throat. His hair was chaotic, pieces of torn off grass and dead leaves poked out from in-between the black strands. His shirt was slightly ripped at the collar and his trouser legs were caked six inches deep in mud – with his knees taking the major brunt of, what appeared to be, half the forest's floor.

"Jesus Christ." John finally said as he scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled across the bed, needing to make physical contact with Sherlock to make sure that he wasn't merely an apparition or some deluded fantasy that his sleep deprived mind had summoned up. The second his hands touched the rough fabric of Sherlock's coat John let out a chocked sound of relief.

"Oh thank God," John said as he clung on to the lapels of his coat and rested his head against Sherlock's chest, "Thank God you're alive, I thought... Oh thank God."

"I can assure you," Sherlock said, "God had absolutely nothing to do with it."

John smiled widely, "I was being figurative." John mumbled into Sherlock's shirt.

"No, you were being evangelical."

John knew that he should probably pull away as they had gone passed the "friend appropriate" amount of time that one platonic friend could cling on to another, but his fingers seemed to be frozen around the lapels of Sherlock's coat and his body was apparently magnetically drawn to the warmth of Sherlock's chest. John could hear Sherlock's heart beating and never before had he been this pleased to hear a human exerting the basic sounds of life.

Sherlock shifted slightly and, even though John couldn't be sure, he thought that he felt the back of Sherlock's hand brush against the side of his stomach.

The main light flicked on and, reluctantly, John turned his face away from Sherlock's chest to look at Irene – who was smiling wickedly at them.

"Is it wrong that this is turning me on?" Irene asked as her eyes lingered on John's claw like grip on Sherlock's coat.

John quickly moved away from Sherlock and sat back down on the bed. Sherlock wasn't looking at him; he was too busy staring at Irene.

"Are you alright dear?" She asked as she snatched the duvet from his fingers and wrapped it around herself, "You seem to be a little listless."

Sherlock was silent for a few more seconds before he said, "I'm trying to work out how to... thank you." The words sounded wrong in Sherlock's mouth, almost as if he was trying to speak a foreign language.

"Well," Irene said as she propped herself up with pillows, "You say: Irene, you glorious, incredibly attractive woman, I know that we theoretically discussed what we would do in a situation such as the one that we've just experienced but... I never thought that you would pull it off as perfectly as you did in practice. And then you say..." She trailed off suggestively.

Sherlock seemed incredibly uncomfortable and John watched as he began picking at one of his coat cuffs, "I wanted to thank you for getting him out of there and keeping him safe."

John looked from Sherlock to Irene who simply nodded and said, "You're very welcome, Mr Holmes."

"You both know that I'm sitting right here don't you?" John asked.

"John, I'll deal with you in a minute." Sherlock said like he was chastising an errant school boy.

"What do you mean you'll deal with me in a minute?" John asked, his newly found joy being rapidly corrupted by anger.

Sherlock sighed, he actually sighed, before he said to Irene, "Could you please get the medical bag out of the car? I was looking for the keys but I couldn't find them. And you should probably take your time coming back," his eyes quickly slid over to John, "This is going to take a few minutes."

John's rage awoke along with a white hot flash of energy that emanated from the back of his skull to the base of his spine.

Irene looked between Sherlock and John before she smiled and slid off the bed, "If you really wanted to thank me Sherlock you'd let me watch what's about to happen... well, you'd let me watch a lot of things." She said as she winked at John conspiratorially.

John watched as she hurriedly pulled on her jeans and shoved her feet into her shoes, "Don't be afraid to let him have it John," She said, "One might even say that, with all that he's put you through, you'd be within your rights to simply take him across your knee and punish him_"

"Get out!" Sherlock snapped and John thought he saw Sherlock flush slightly.

Irene's smile was dazzling, "What happened to Mr Thankful?" When Sherlock did nothing but shoot daggers at her she rolled her eyes and said, "Evidently he's been replaced by Mr Grumpy. I promise to knock before I let myself in." She said before opening the door and slipping into the dark hallway.

Silence surrounded them and John's anger was momentarily abated by a feeling of profound awkwardness. This was the first time they had been alone since they had had their argument and with all that had transpired between them in the past twenty-four hours John was unsure where he should begin. At the moment it was a tossup between: "Hey Sherlock, I'm sorry I flipped out and smashed one of your few cherished possessions" or "Do you remember the time I got kidnapped by your archenemy and he got you to point a gun at my head and made me believe that you were going to shoot me dead? God, wasn't that just crazy?"

Neither of those options seemed to be a winner so instead he said,

"Where did you get shot?"

Sherlock turned his attention from the door and asked, "Pardon?"

"Where did you get shot?"

Sherlock waved the matter away as if it was of little consequence, "In the thigh and in the shoulder."

"Jesus, how much blood have you lost?"

"I'm not sure."

"Are the bullets still inside you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock hissed, "I was a little preoccupied with the task of getting out of there alive."

John blinked at him incredulously, "Did you just...? Did you just give me attitude?"

"I am not a teenage girl John; don't accuse me of "sassing" you."

"But that's exactly what you are doing, you're being all strange and passive aggressive."

"Well I have good reason to be." Sherlock finally snapped, his voice rising just above what is an acceptable inside volume, "We're in this mess because of your carelessness."

John stared opened mouthed at Sherlock, "How can you possibly blame me for this? This was your fuck up, you took the case, you got involved with a serial killer – again – you couldn't stop obsessing, you couldn't help but keep probing until you solved your puzzle."

"We wouldn't have gone through what we just did if you hadn't gotten yourself abducted by that serial killer."

"How can you... how can you blame me for getting abducted? That's like blaming a child for his parents' divorce."

"Oh, so in your analogy I'm your parent?"

"No, it was just a comparative – obviously a poor one – because if anything, I'm your parent. I clean up after you, and cook you dinner and drive you to crime scenes and have little sit down talks with Mycroft and Lestrade to talk about your behaviour. All I have to do is start tucking you in at night to truly conform to the role of mother."

Sherlock's nostrils flared in anger and he tried to pace but the bullet wound in his leg impeded his movements, "So you're seriously not going to take any of the blame for this?"

John paused a moment before he shouted, "No! I'm not taking the blame for your mistakes, I want an apology, I want you to say, "Oh, I'm sorry John for pointing a gun at your head_"

"I wasn't going to shoot you_"

"But I didn't know that_"

"Well you should, you should know me well enough by now to know_"

"To know what? That you were going to pull a smoke bomb out of your hair to distract the nutcases that were holding me hostage?"

"Well we're friends aren't we, isn't that what friends are supposed to do – know things about each other."

"Yes," John spluttered, "But it's meant to be stuff like how you take your tea or what the name of your first pet was or whether or not you eat meat_"

"Why would you need to know those things about me? How is the answer to any of those questions going to help you get out of a high pressure situation?"

John hit his head against the mattress in frustration before he sprung off the bed and crossed the room in three long strides so that he was standing in front of Sherlock, "Are you seriously listening to yourself? Because honestly, the only conclusion that I can come to at the moment is that the loss of blood has made you go bat shit crazy!"

"Don't be ridiculous John, I haven't lost that much blood."

John was going to hit him, Sherlock was pushing him too far. The only thing that was stopping John from punching him straight in the face was the knowledge that he had been shot – twice – and he needed medical assistance.

"Well I won't know until I examine you." John said as calmly as he could, "Take it off."

Sherlock seemed a little taken aback, "What?"

"Take off your shirt so I can see what sort of wound we're dealing with."

"Now is not the time_"

"When would be the time? After you've bled to death_"

"Don't be rid_"

"Don't tell me I'm being ridiculous." John hissed, his patience finally snapping as he took hold of the shoulder of Sherlock's coat and wrenched it off, "You're the one being ridiculous, blaming me for something that I couldn't control. Why aren't you blaming yourself? You could have worked it out sooner. You're the great Sherlock Holmes after all, why didn't you make the connection before I was ambushed and locked in a windmill? Or, what about after I was taken, why didn't you go to Mycroft or Lestrade to get back up, to put men on the ground with guns and tactical training? Is it because you can't stand for anyone else to be the hero or was it simply a fantasy of yours to have me kneel in front of you with a gun pressed to my head?"

John was barely aware of what he was doing, anger and rage was so potent in his blood that he could hardly see. He knew that he had thrown Sherlock's coat across the room and that his hands where roughly unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

"John, I think that you should..." Sherlock's voice sounded strange, rough and... almost pleading.

"I'm going to examine you, make sure that you're fine and then I'm going to kick the shit out of you. Do you have any idea what you've put me through? Firstly being drugged by a nutcase, then locked in a windmill to have revelations with a woman that – previous to all this – I couldn't stand. I had to kneel in front of you and watch you point a gun at my head, I thought that you were going to kill me, I thought that I was going to die_ and then I thought that you were dead, I've spent hours thinking that I'd lost you and now that you're here, alive and breathing, all I want to do is smack you in the face."

John said, finally giving up with the delicate preamble of trying to push the fiddly buttons out of the holes. He slid his hand inside Sherlock's shirt, his finger tips briefly brushing against the hot skin of his chest, before he grabbed hold of the fabric with both hands and ripped the shirt in two. Buttons flew in all directions, some of them hitting the walls; others pinged off the lampshade before falling to the floor like dead flies.

Sherlock's pale chest could be seen through the tattered remnants of his butchered shirt, and John watched briefly as the muscles in his stomach trembled as John's hands made contact with his skin. He pushed aside the sparse strips of fabric to examine the bullet wound. It went through the hollow gap between Sherlock's collar bone and his shoulder socket. John placed a hand on Sherlock's stomach and turned him around roughly so that he could check to see if there was an exit wound. His shirt was still covering his back and John quickly disposed of the remaining fabric so that Sherlock stood completely shirtless.

To his relief John saw an exit wound. Dried blood ran down the length of Sherlock's back and chest so it took John a few seconds to realise that there was faint bruising down the length of his spine. He ran his thumb from the base of his back to the tip of his shoulder blades, gently prodding to check for any extreme tenderness.

Sherlock's breathing faltered as John's thumb retraced its path down Sherlock's spine, "Does that hurt?" John asked, pressing against the spot with the flat of his palm.

"No." Sherlock said after a moment.

"Does it hurt anywhere else other than your shoulder and thigh?" John asked, his temper slowly cooling down as his mind became trained on the task at hand.

"No." Sherlock answered again.

John turned Sherlock around so that they were standing chest to chest again. John finally looked up at Sherlock's face and saw that his cheeks were incredibly flushed and his eyes were dark. He'd never seen Sherlock look this discomposed before and the sight of the flush in his cheeks and the dilated darkness of his pupils made something tighten in John's stomach.

"Take your trousers off." John said, trying to keep his voice even.

"What?" Sherlock asked dumbly.

"I need to examine your other wound."

"It's fine." Sherlock said quickly.

"I don't trust you."

"Well you're going to have to take my word for it." Sherlock said as he turned and began limping away.

John reached out, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's belt and dragged him back, "I'm not in the mood to take your shit right now Sherlock." John said as he began to unbutton Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock's hand flew to where John was undoing his zip, his fingers clutched around John's hand almost painfully, "Stop it John." He said, his voice, although lethal with anger, also sounded slightly breathless.

John was losing it, he was pushing too many boundaries without being consciously aware that he was doing so. Even now, when he knew that he should stop, he didn't let go of Sherlock's fly but instead he looked up at his face, staring at him defiantly,

"Let go Sherlock." He said staccato.

Sherlock stared back, the tendons in his neck rigid with tension. His breath fell hot and heavy against John's face. They stared at each other for an immeasurably amount of time before Sherlock slowly loosened his grip and let his hands fall to his sides, leaving John's fingers alone on his fly.

The feeling of power was immediate and overwhelmingly hedonistic. Sherlock had yielded to him, for the first time since he had known him, this was the first time that Sherlock had actually given in and let John control the situation.

And in that moment their dynamic changed. Up until this point a part of John had always entertained the idea that maybe his evolving feelings for Sherlock were merely a phase that would pass, that it was a sign of a more intimate friendship rather than anything sexual. But not in this moment because there was nothing complex or ambiguous about the way John was feeling right now. It wasn't about difficult declarations of love or affection, there was nothing cute or sweet or adorable about what he was feeling for Sherlock in this moment. Complexity had been replaced by simplistic, carnal want.

John wanted to fuck Sherlock. It was the first time he had truly entertained the thought, or at least given it such a crude term. Prior to this moment he would think about simply touching Sherlock, or feeling his skin against his. But not now, in this moment John was being driven by carnal want. He wanted something harsh and hard and rough. He wanted to throw Sherlock down onto the mattress, press his thighs into the bed to stop him from squirming too much, fall to his knees and_

"I thought you said that you were going to knock." Sherlock said, all the while continuing to stare intently at John.

At first John didn't understand what he was saying, it seemed to jar completely with what had just transpired between them – with what had been about to happen. John quickly swallowed at the thought of what he had been about to do to Sherlock.

"I had my fingers crossed so it doesn't count." Irene said and John slowly turned his head to see her standing at the opposite end of the room, her back pressed against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were fixated on the place where John's hand still had hold of Sherlock's fly.

"But please," she said, as she finally looked at John, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "Don't let me interrupt you, this looks like it's about to get interesting."


	14. Misjudgments of Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This is a pre-apology, due to the looming exam season chapter updates will, more than likely, become more sporadic at the end of May to the beginning of June. I promise to write some more when I can - although I do get a little crazy with revision and past papers around this time so you might go a few weeks before you hear from me again.
> 
> Right yes, back to the story...

There's not a lot you can say when someone walks in on you with your hand practically rammed down the front of someone's trousers. It's not as if you could say that you simply slipped – because very rarely does one slip and end up virtually fondly someone's scrotum. Irene was just staring at him, her eyebrow slightly cocked, her arms crossed over her chest. John could tell exactly what she was thinking and for once her sexually deviant mind wasn't misreading the situation. It was mortifying! Although, not quite as mortifying as the fact that, in the five minutes that she'd been standing there, John had yet to remove his hand from the general vicinity of Sherlock's crotch. It was almost as if his hand just enjoyed being nestled between the soft fabric of Sherlock's trousers and the warmth of his belly and it point blank refused to move.

"A word of advice John," Irene said as her lips curled up into a shit eating grin, "Never start with the shirt, always work from the bottom up – it's more fun that way."

What was he supposed to say to that? Should he try to deny something that was blatantly obvious or should he simply nod his head and tell her that he'd remember that for next time?

"John was simply examining my injuries." Sherlock said as he forcibly removed John's hand from the waistband of his trousers, his fingers almost painfully tight around John's wrist.

"Are you sure that was all he was trying to examine?"

John closed his eyes, he hadn't felt this mortified since he was fifteen and both his mother and sister had walked in on him masturbating.

"Did you bring the medical bag or did you spend the entire time eavesdropping?" Sherlock asked Irene, almost as if he hadn't heard what she had said. He sat himself down on the bed, wincing slightly as his injured thigh made contact with the mattress.

Irene's eyes flickered around the room before they alighted on Sherlock's tattered shirt that was lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. She silently walked over to it and, very carefully, plucked the shredded garment off the floor. She held it gingerly between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, almost as if she was afraid that the thing would disintegrate if she handled it too roughly. She turned the shirt to the left... and then to the right at an agonisingly slow speed. She scrutinised every inch before she looked up at John,

"What happened to this poor thing? It looks like it's been clawed at by a tiger."

"Irene," Sherlock snapped in exasperation, "Where is the medical bag?"

Irene sighed heavily before she let the ruined shirt plop back onto the floor. She crossed the room and bent down to retrieve the aforementioned medical bag that she had tucked discretely between the door and the bedside dresser.

"There was also a cooler." Sherlock said impatiently as he watched Irene hand the medical bag to John.

"Yes I know, I have eyes." Irene said as she picked up the red cooler and dangled in front of Sherlock, "I assumed that it was something important, you don't strike me as the sort of person who would be thoughtful enough to pack a picnic."

John turned his attention towards the bag and began rummaging around, hardly batting an eyelid when he saw numerous bottles of anaesthetic, iodine, morphine, IV lines, hypodermic syringes, suture kits and...

"Is this a mini defibrillator?" John asked, just managing to keep a tone of incredulity from his voice.

Sherlock, who had been fumbling with the latch on the cooler, turned his attention back to John and nodded. Obviously, in Sherlock's mind, no more explanation was needed. John didn't bother asking why Sherlock had thought it necessary to bring a defibrillator – travel sized or not – because he wasn't really in the mood for condescension. So instead he drew 15ml of anaesthetic into one of the hypodermic syringes before hesitantly approaching Sherlock. He wasn't sure that he should be touching him right now, not after what had happen – not after what had been about to happen. Although John didn't think that it specifically stated in the Hippocratic Oath that it was unethical to stitch up a patient while simultaneously sucking them off, John was sure that it probably wasn't good practice. John hadn't realised that he hadn't moved until Irene cleared her throat and said,

"As entertaining as this is I was hoping that we could discuss the matter of a certain psychopath? Is Moriarty dead?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, but his friend is. The first shot fired came from Moriarty's gun; it went straight through the man's parietal bone. He was dead before he hit the ground."

"He shot his own accomplice?" John asked incredulously.

"I think it was an accident rather than an act of calculated sadism. His vision probably got impaired by the smoke and that caused him to mistake his accomplice for me."

"Either that or he just wanted to get a buzz from shooting a man in the face."

Sherlock nodded slowly, "That is a possibility – although rather unlikely considering the circumstances_"

"What happened after we left?" Irene asked, her voice slightly tinged with exasperation.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes grew vacant as he began to recite the events in his usual clinical way, "Moriarty fired a second shot and this one hit me in the outer thigh – minimal blood loss, missed the bone, through and through, a mere flesh wound. I fell to my knees, shouted for John to run and then belly crawled across the ground until I felt the dimensions of a corpse. I located the gun with minimal difficulty and tried to get to my feet. The smoke was too thick to see through and I didn't want to shoot in case John was still standing in vicinity acting like an idiot."

John breathed out heavily through his nose, "I was in shock."

Sherlock's eyebrow curled up in disapproval, "That's not an excuse."

"Yes it is. It's actually an incredibly reasonable one_"

"So you had the dead man's gun..." Irene prompted.

Sherlock sighed, "When I was relatively sure that both you and John had finally left the generally vicinity I took a calculated shot in the direction where I believed Moriarty to be. In hindsight it was a bad move because, aside from missing my target, the noise of my gun acted as a sound beacon and gave away my location. That was when Moriarty took a third shot, it missed, he took a fourth, it missed, he took a fifth and this time the bullet went through my shoulder – yielding a more substantial amount of blood loss but again it missed the bone and was a through and through flesh wound."

Sherlock fell silent and after waiting for a few seconds Irene said, "What happened next?"

"I believe I blacked out because the next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing the sky. It was clear and so was the surrounding area so at least ten minutes must have passed to allow the smoke to completely dissipate."

A moment of silence ensued in which John thought about Sherlock lying unconscious and helpless on the ground, the smoke clearing as Moriarty moved to tower over him...

"Why didn't he just kill you?" John asked.

"Because," Sherlock said as he clicked his neck from side to side, grimacing as the movement made the skin around his shoulder wound stretch, "As he so eloquently put it before, he wants to burn me, burn the heart out of me." Sherlock's eyes turned back to John, "Putting a bullet in my brain wouldn't be enough to sate his sadistic desire to destroy me. The only way to truly destroy someone is by hurting the people who they hold most dear..." Sherlock swallowed before he turned his attention back to his injured shoulder, "Which means that you're going to have to stop being so careless."

John blinked, his brain was still processing the idea that Sherlock had – in his own way – just admitted that he was one of the people who he "held most dear".

"Careless? When was I careless?"

"Perhaps we shouldn't start that argument again, these are my favourite trousers after all and I would prefer for them not to be ripped to shreds."

John felt blood rush to his face and anger tingle the base of his spine. He didn't bother with anymore preamble, all former hesitation had now vanished and been consumed with irritation. He crossed the space between them and slid the needle into Sherlock's shoulder, numbing the area around the nasty looking wound.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and grunted slightly in pain, "I could have done with a shot of morphine." He hissed as John slid the needle in at a different angle, "I think two gunshot wounds warrant a few milligrams of pain relief."

"What about your sobriety."

"I couldn't care less, I'm in pain!"

"I care." John said as he moved on to numbing the other side of Sherlock's shoulder, "Because every time the legitimacy of your sobriety comes under question, I have to take you to Bart's so that Molly can watch you urinate into a cup."

"I still don't see a problem, Molly enjoys testing my urine."

"Yes, well, Molly has her own psychological problems."

"What do you suggest I do about the pain then?"

"Well, for starters you could stop whingeing like a spoilt four year old."

"I don't whinge_ Ow that hurts!"

John snorted, "It's a needle Sherlock, you're not going to convince me that a former crack addict isn't accustomed to feeling a slight sting."

"Yes but usually the sting is followed by a rush of euphoria_"

"I'm not drugging you up_"

"Fine, I'll do it myself." Sherlock said as he tried to stand up.

"Make one move towards that medical bag and I'll break your arm." John said as he roughly shoved against Sherlock's chest, making him retake his seat on the mattress.

Sherlock's eyes momentarily burnt bright with excitement "Are you threatening me John, because even encumbered with two wounded limbs I could still take you_"

"Oh boys!" Irene said as she laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the ceiling in exasperation, "It's like watching the blind leading the blind, if it wasn't so painful it would actually be funny." She turned her head from the ceiling and just stared at them, her expression a mixture of incredulity and adoration, "You both must be so exhausted, it must be torturous to be coiled this tightly all the time.

John watched as Irene looked between them, a devilish smile spreading across his lips, "Good Lord, I actually think that it might kill you. When you finally give in and work out the one way to truly relieve all that pent up tension, I actually think it'll kill you stone dead. It'll be like some sort of cataclysmic explosion." Her eyes appeared to be a little glassy; as if she was picturing something that neither Sherlock nor John could see, "But what a way to die? I don't think I could imagine a more satisfying death."

"John," Sherlock said warily, "What is she talking about?"

"I have no idea." John said, although he did – he was all too aware as to what Irene was referring to. However, the idea of trying to explain to Sherlock that Irene was suggesting that they could literally fuck each other to death didn't seem too appealing.

"Well," Irene said, suddenly snapping out of her thoughts, "Unless you plan on discussing what we need to do next, I think I'm going to go shopping."

"Shopping." Sherlock practically chocked out, "Now is not the time to partake in frivolities_"

"Firstly dear," Irene said, holding up one finger to silence him, "The act of shopping is never frivolous – it's cathartic. Secondly, we are quite literally in the middle of nowhere, the only things around here are a few greasy spoon cafes, an arcade, several charity shops and about a hundred miles of salty water so I doubt I shall be shopping in luxury."

"We're by the sea?"

"No John, there's simply a large pit around here where all the angels come to cry every time someone asks a stupid question."

He could just slap him, no one would judge.

Irene began rummaging around in Sherlock's coat before she located his wallet and pulled out a couple of notes before she continued, "Thirdly, the temperature is just above freezing out there and you – thanks to John and his carnal impulses – have no shirt. Fourthly, going by the fact that Moriarty is yet to be killed and buried in a shallow grave, I'm assuming that we're going to be here for a little while and – unless you enjoy walking around with week old sweat stains – I think we're all going to need a change of clothes. Do I really need to supply you with more reasons or have I justified my decision."

Sherlock scowled and pouted a little but he nodded nonetheless.

Irene smiled, "I'll try and find you another purple shirt." She said before she turned her eyes towards John, "If I remember correctly you're a fan of hideous jumpers. Would you like for me to get you another one or do you think I could pick a design that doesn't make you look like a colour wheel has just vomited all over you?"

John stared blankly at her until she simply smiled and winked at him, "I'll be gone about an hour, when I get back we'll go and get something fried and disgusting from one of the cafes I mentioned." She plucked up the car keys from the bedside table before she said, "Now you be a good boy and patch him up before you start molesting him again. It's no fun to play with a toy when it's broken." She gave him a meaningful look before finally slipping out of the hotel room for the second time that morning.

The moment the door closed behind her John felt the air deflate around him; everything was a lot less tense now that Irene wasn't watching him like he was a stubborn panda refusing to mate. He cast a glance in Sherlock's direction only to see him flicking through his phone,

"What are you doing?"

"Sending a text to Mycroft so that he knows that I'm still alive."

"What did you write?"

"By the beach, having a lovely time, smiley face."

John smirked slightly as he plucked a bottle of iodine from the bag and began soaking a large ball of cotton wall in the pungent liquid,

"I didn't know that you knew how to use emoticons."

"Yes well it has become a necessity of the twenty-first century in which the art of subtlety has been replaced by the acronym "LOL"."

John approached Sherlock and applied a liberal amount of iodine to his shoulder. As the cleansing chemical hit Sherlock's raw flesh he sucked in a shuddering gasp of air and unthinkingly grabbed hold of a handful of John's jeans.

"Sorry, sorry," John soothed as he wiped down the area once more and then screwed the lid shut on the bottle, "How does the area feel?" He asked as he gently prodded the swollen looking flesh, "Are you numb yet?"

"Going by the intense reaction I just had towards the iodine does it look like I'm numbed up yet?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained, his arm and body trembling. He looked like he was in sheer agony and John was just about to relent and give him some pain relief when Sherlock said, "I'm fine, just sew me up and get it over with."

Despite his words John could see that his eyes had watered slightly and his breathing was still laboured with pain. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand there was Sherlock's sobriety and on the other there was his pain.

John watched as Sherlock's hand remained clenched around the fabric of his jeans, his knuckles turning white, and his body continuing to tremble. Morphine was a different type of opiate than cocaine and he didn't need to give him an excessive amount, only enough to take the edge off and stop Sherlock from slipping into shock.

John sighed deeply and rubbed his hand over his brow, "I'm going to give you 5mg of morphine."

"Ten." Sherlock immediately shot back.

"Don't push your luck." John said as he rummaged around in the bag, pulling out a suture kit, a bottle of morphine and another hypodermic needle.

"You're going to need an IV line." Sherlock said.

"Why?"

Sherlock opened the lid of the cooler and placed it on the floor before John, "Blood transfusion. I might have been wrong about the blood loss, I'm starting to feel a little light headed. It's nothing to be too concerned about," he said as he watched John pluck up a blood bag from the cooler and connect it to an IV line, "It's probably caused by a combination of sleep deprivation, shock, blood loss and mild hypoglycaemia."

"Well when you put it like that." John said shaking his head as he pulled a tourniquet tightly around Sherlock's bicep so that the vein stood out blue and rigid against Sherlock's paper white skin.

"Can I ask you – what you will deem to be – a stupid question?"

"Morphine first." Sherlock said between gritted teeth.

John measured out exactly 5mg of morphine into a hypodermic syringe before he slid the needle into Sherlock's erect vein. The effect was instantaneous: his body stopped trembling and his shoulders and spine relaxed. His fingers – which had been gripping the bed sheets – finally loosened and lay flat on the mattress. John wasn't pleased that, in this moment, he had effectively become Sherlock's supplier but he was relieved that he no longer seemed to be in pain.

Sherlock closed his eyes, basking in the pleasure of the strong opiate, before he turned his gaze back to John, "You can ask your question now."

"It's made up of three parts."

"John," Sherlock said almost dreamily, "You could ask me to recite an entire analytical critique on the Ulysses and I would be happy to oblige."

John smiled, apparently Sherlock on morphine was a lot more agreeable than Sherlock on nicotine, "Firstly, did you know that you were going to get shot?"

"I thought that it was a strong possibility that one of us would get badly injured so I thought it best to bring the necessary equipment."

"So you have different blood types in there?" John asked as he went to check the label on the bag he was holding, only to find that there was none.

Sherlock shook his head for a little longer than was necessary, "I didn't need to, we're the same blood type."

John blinked at him, a little shocked that he hadn't known this.

"Where did you get the blood from?" John asked as he slid the IV needle into the crook of Sherlock's arm and watched as the viscous red liquid shot through the cube and into Sherlock's body.

Sherlock lazily slapped the inside of his other elbow, "From my veins, I siphoned off a few bags last month, I always keep a few bags of blood in the freezer in case either of us needs an emergency transfusion."

John was a little taken aback about the idea of Sherlock's blood literally running through his veins. For some strange reason it made him shiver a little. He secured the IV to Sherlock's skin with some medical tape before hanging the bag from the lampshade that was dangling from the ceiling.

They were silent for a few minutes as John got to work sewing up Sherlock's shoulder. He tried to minimise the amount of contact between them but John's hand kept finding its way back to resting against Sherlock's chest. Besides it was reassuring to feel the beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his palm, it was like John was acting as his human heart monitor.

"Why did Irene say that she was going to get me a purple shirt?" Sherlock finally asked after some minutes had passed. From the sound of his voice the morphine had now truly infiltrated his nervous system.

"Because I ripped your other one... and about that, Sherlock I_"

"But why a purple one? The shirt you ripped was black."

"Yes well I think she was making a reference to the other purple shirt that you have, but about what I did, I didn't mean to_"

"But I have other colours." Sherlock pressed, "I have white ones and black ones and a few green ones_"

"Sherlock I know what colour shirts you have, I do the ironing_"

"So why would she pacific... specific... I can't say specifically!" Sherlock said in shock.

"You just did."

Sherlock appearingly pondered this for a moment before he continued, "Why would she spe-cific-cally," he said the word slowly like a child sounding out the alphabet for the first time, "want to buy me a purple shirt."

"I don't know, maybe because you look good in the purple shirt that you already have."

"Are you saying that I don't look good in other shirts?"

"No, you look lovely in all shirts."

"Don't patronise me."

"Then stop saying stupid things."

"Annoying isn't it?" When John looked up from Sherlock's shoulder he saw that Sherlock was smiling broadly at him. It was an odd sight to see Sherlock smiling genuinely rather than smirking with contempt, it suited him, made him look younger, almost like a naughty little boy.

"You are so stoned." John said as he took in Sherlock's dilated pupils and slightly vacant stare. John realised that he had been staring for too long and quickly turned his attention back to Sherlock's shoulder, "Um... I've finished with this wound so I need to..." John gestured towards Sherlock's thigh.

"Oh yes, of course, the other one. Go on then."

"OK then... why don't you take off your trousers?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his expression a little glassy, "I'd rather if you did it." And then he smirked devilishly at John.

Dear God! Obviously a stoned Sherlock was a bit of flirt. It was strange, unnerving and incredibly hot. John reached out and unfastened the button on Sherlock's trousers before unzipping the fly and grasping hold of the fabric on either side of his hips.

Sherlock raised his hips off the bed to allow for John to pull the trousers down his legs. A montage of filthy images flitted through John's mind as he peeled the fabric over Sherlock's hips and down his pale thighs until the bullet wound came into sight. He didn't look up, he didn't dare, instead he focused his task on simply pulling the trousers down to Sherlock's knees so that the entire area was exposed.

John traced the tips of his fingers down the outside of Sherlock's thigh and then gently brushed his thumb up the inside...

Sherlock shuddered and John looked up, only now realising that he was kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs, "Sherlock," John said and then be coughed slightly because his throat had grown incredibly dry, "I think that we need to talk about something."

Sherlock's face fell before it set hard as stone, "Is this about you moving out."

"What? No, why... why would I be moving out? Do you want me to move out?"

"No, of course not_"

"Then why would you think that I'd be moving out?"

"Because you've been acting increasingly anxious these past months, you don't talk to me as much as you used to, you spend most of your time either at work or with Stamford and when you are in the flat you avoid me. And then we had that fight and you walked out and got yourself abducted by a serial killer_"

"Sherlock_"

"If you've had enough of me then I understand. It's what people do, they stay until the novelty wears off and then... they go. You've lasted longer than anyone else – and that's including my parents because they pretty much had enough of me when I starting to speak in full sentences."

John sighed deeply and rested his forehead against Sherlock's knee, "For someone who sees everything you can be incredibly blind when it comes to obvious things." John kept his forehead pressed against Sherlock's knee, too afraid to look up at his face, "How is it possible for you to work out a person's favourite font by looking at their shoes but you can't work out how I feel about you?"

After a moment of silence John felt fingers in his hair and he brought his face up to see Sherlock staring at him.

"John I... I have to tell you something it's..." His hand brushed against John's head a few more times before he said, almost in awe, "Your hair is shining."

John blinked, "Pardon?"

"Your hair is... glowing, it's like a beacon." Sherlock's other hand came around and he grabbed John on either side of his face before bringing his head closer to his and blowing on his hair as if it was a candle, "It's like looking at a shimmering field of wheat... do you use a special sort of shampoo?"

"Fuck me." John muttered, "I don't remember you being like this when you shot up cocaine last Christmas."

"Cocaine stimulates, morphine sedates. When I'm high on cocaine it feels like my blood's on fire, my mind shoots from one thought to another so fast that they feel like they're about to fly out of my eyes... but morphine makes me want to curl up and sleep on your head."

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"Stop playing with my hair and let me stitch you up."

"But it's so soft."

John slapped Sherlock's hands away in irritation. Of course it would be like this, the first time John tried to tell Sherlock how he felt he'd been abducted by a serial killer, it was only natural that the second time he tried Sherlock would be stoned out of his mind. John wondered if the third time would be the charm – he didn't hold up much hope.

"So you're not going to leave me?" Sherlock asked as he watched John stitch up his leg.

"Sherlock, if I was going to leave you then I'd have packed my bags the first time you used the bathtub as an aquarium."

"The sink was too small to accommodate the coy fish."

"You're missing the point – like you did when it happened the first time... and the second time and the third time_"

"Well then why have you been acting so strangely if you're not planning on moving out?"

John opened his mouth a couple of times but the slightly vacant expression on Sherlock's face – coupled with the fact that he still seemed incredibly fascinated with his hair – gave John the impression that he probably wouldn't remember anything that transpired between them in the next hour or so... so would it really matter? He could just say it, get it off his chest now while Sherlock was in a drug induced haze and then never say it again. Nothing had to change. He'd promised Irene that he'd tell Sherlock how he felt, he hadn't specified that he'd tell him when he was compos mentis.

He should just say it now, let it free and then they could forget about it. Maybe he just needed to say it, maybe once he'd said it out loud it would break the spell – so to speak – and the aching in John's chest and stomach would stop and they could just go back to being friends...

"I'm in love with you." John said as he kept his eyes on the task at hand, sliding the needle beneath Sherlock's skin and pulling the pieces of flesh back together. "Or at least I think that it's love, I can't be sure, because most of the time I want to punch you in the face and usually wanting to inflict pain on someone isn't synonymous with loving them. But I think it's love. And I don't know what I want to do; I don't know how this would work, if it would even work. I don't know if I want to date you or be in a romantic relationship with you, I'm pretty sure I want to fuck you – which is, in itself, an entirely different thing that I have to get my head around - but other than that I don't know what I want and that's why I've been acting strangely."

John took a deep breath, still not looking up, still focusing on closing Sherlock's wound, "Your friendship is the most important thing that I have in my life and the idea of losing you over something like this, something that I could hide and pretend isn't there, well... its unimaginable and I'd rather be your friend than nothing at all."

Sherlock was silent and John imagined him staring up at the light, transfixed like a moth to a flame.

"Look forget it," John mumbled as he tied off the last stitch, "Maybe when you're sober we can talk about this, or maybe we won't, Christ I don't know... But I need to get to the other side of your leg so if you could just roll onto your_"

John stopped mid sentence when he finally looked up and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face. His drug addled haze had dissipated significantly and although his expression was still slightly vacant his eyes were clear and his body rigid. He hadn't just heard what John had said he'd taken it in, sucked it into that massive brain of his to analyse and dissect. John could see him doing it now, he was making deductions, the cogs and wheels in his head weren't just turning they were flying against one another, moving so fast they were about to overheat. He wasn't loopy, happy, drugged up Sherlock anymore, he wasn't staring at John's "glowing" hair he was staring into his eyes, his expression impassive, his own eyes laced with a mixture of shock and blind terror.

Oh fucking hell.


	15. The Impasse

There had to be some sort of button that he could press to undo what he had just done. Some way to rewind or even fast forward this moment, to move it on from the perpetual pause it seemed to be stuck on. Sherlock wasn't moving – he was barely blinking – and as the seconds ticked into minutes John began to wonder if his eyes were deceiving him. Surely someone couldn't stay this still or this silent for so long.

In the immeasurable amount of time that they had been staring at each other, John had watched as Sherlock's expression had morphed from shocked to terrified to sad recognition to finally dissolving into its current state: cold impassivity.

John couldn't read him when he was like this and for the first time in their acquaintance John found it simultaneously maddening and agonising that he couldn't hear what Sherlock was thinking. It couldn't be good though. Sherlock usually voiced his opinions when he was excited about them. His prolonged silence suggested that he was trying to carefully pick through a concept that he didn't quite understand.

After what felt like an eternity – but what could only have been fifteen minutes – Sherlock finally showed signs of life. He took in a quiet breath, blinked a few times and finally refocused his eyes on John. There was another pause which passed agonisingly slowly and John felt his heart rate spike when he finally saw Sherlock's lips part. He was going to say something. John held his breath and waited...

Nothing happened. No words tumbled out of Sherlock's open mouth. They were frozen in the moment again and this time John couldn't bare the silence,

"Sherlock," he pleaded, "Please say something. Talk to me."

John watched as Sherlock's chest rose and fell gently with each taken breath, watched as his Adam's apple bobbed slightly in his throat as he swallowed and finally, mercifully, watched as his lips began to move,

"John," he said slowly, "I believe that you have made a mistake."

John blinked in confusion a few times before he said, "I... I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Sherlock fixed him with a steady look before continuing to explain in the same slow, soft tone in which he had begun, "When people experience trauma – either psychological, physical or a combination of the two – they can sometimes experience an impairment of judgment and reasoning, up to the point where they sometimes do or say things that are illogical and lacking in rationality and are not truly representative of how they actually feel."

John felt like someone had just smacked him across the back of the head with the longest sentence in the world and it took him a few seconds to understand what Sherlock was getting at,

"Are you trying to say that the only reason why I told you that I loved you was because I've been psychologically traumatised?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

John didn't know whether he should laugh or cry at the ridiculousness of Sherlock's reasoning, "Sherlock that's... I don't have a response to that. How could you possibly think that the only way that I could love you is if I am psychologically traumatised?"

"It's the only explanation that makes any logical sense. You don't lov_ the way that you are currently feeling isn't truly representative of the way that you actually feel."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't."

"Sherlock I think I know how I feel."

"Not at this moment, in this moment you are emotionally compromised by the trauma_"

"Don't do that." John warned as he finally got to his feet. He had been kneeling for so long that the second he stood all the blood instantly rushed to his legs and he almost fell to the floor. He managed to keep his balance by leaning against the wall, "Sherlock don't do this, please don't do this."

"Do what_?"

"Try and rationalise this... thing between us. Don't try and devalue my declaration by chalking it up to impaired judgement or whatever bollocks you're going to come out with next."

John braced his hands on his knees, suddenly feeling light headed. How had this gone so wrong so fast? "Isn't this supposed to be a good thing? People usually respond in two ways to a declaration of love, they either say "I don't feel the same" or "I love you too." They don't analyse the fucking life out of the situation." John pressed his head against the wall. This was simultaneously the most humiliating and torturous thing he had ever experienced.

"It's not to do with the trauma_"

"Yes it is_"

"I'm not traumatised!" John finally shouted, "I was a soldier, I know what it feels like to experience trauma and what we went through last night doesn't even come close to some of the things that have happened to me. I am not traumatised. My feelings aren't illogical or ill-founded or unrepresentative of my actual feelings_"

"John I think_"

"For fuck's sake Sherlock." John practically sobbed in frustration, "Do you really think that I told you how I felt on a whim? That these feelings just sprung up overnight like fungi and I thought "Hey, why don't I tell Sherlock something that could potentially shatter our friendship and destroy my life?" Months Sherlock," John said as he thumped his fist against the wall, "I've spent months feeling like... like the world had come to an end because I was feeling something for you that friends shouldn't feel towards one another. It's been agonising to see you every day and want something from you that I don't even know if you're capable – let alone willing – to give me."

Sherlock sat as still as stone. Even from across the room John could see the faint pulsing of the arteries in his neck and muscles in his jaw clenched painfully tight. This time he looked Sherlock right in the eye when he said,

"I'm in love with you and that is a fact, that is how I truly feel, I am in love with_"

"Would you stop saying that?" Sherlock hissed as he eased his trousers back over his knees and refastened them around his waist, "You don't..." and he seemed almost incapable of saying the word out loud, as if he thought that the word itself would burn his tongue if he tried to utter it.

Sherlock took in a deep breath before he said harshly, "You don't love me John, it's a lie, it's not real. You've deluded yourself. You've taken the close nature of our relationship and combined it with a level of hero worship and labelled that emotion as love. You're mistaken. You're wrong."

John wanted to hit him, he actually felt the skin around his knuckles prickle with the need to collide with the hard edge of Sherlock's jaw,

"You arrogant prick. How dare you imply that_?"

"It wasn't an implication it was a statement of fact."

"You can't look inside my head Sherlock, you might think that you can but you can't. Hero worship... for fuck's sake..." John shook his head incredulously. It shouldn't have to be this hard, he had thought that he most difficult part to all this would have been actually telling Sherlock how he felt, not having to fucking convince him of the fact.

"Sherlock I_"

"Don't say it again." Sherlock said, his voice sounded tight like he was barely holding back some emotion that John couldn't quite place, "We need to forget that this ever happened_"

"Sherlock_"

"If you care for me, in any capacity, you'll stop, you'll do this for me, you'll pretend that you never said anything."

"Why? Don't you..." a part of John didn't want to hear Sherlock's response but he needed an answer, he needed to know once and for all what Sherlock saw him as, "Do you not feel the same way?"

Sherlock stared at him for an immeasurable amount of time, his face impassive, his eyes cold, "If we did this," he said so quietly that John had to take a step forward so that he could actually hear what Sherlock was saying, "If we tried to be more than what we already are then it would... it would..." He rubbed a blooded hand over his brow, "John," he said, his tone pleading, "John it would kill me."

When John tried to approach Sherlock he backed away slightly, moving quickly up the bed, seemingly unimpeded by his injuries. He looked so lost in that moment, so vulnerable that all John wanted to do was reach out a hand and touch him, reassure him that everything was going to be OK.

"Sherlock, I know that you don't do relationships_"

"It's not that." Sherlock said and in the pause that ensued John thought that he saw Sherlock trying to communicate some emphatic meaning behind his words through his eyes. They were willing John to see the subtext to that simple sentence.

"It's not that." Sherlock repeated before he continued, "It's the fact that it wouldn't last, it could never work. We're too different, it's fine now because we're friends and at the end of the day you can walk away from me. It works because I only take up a part of your life. If we were to... if we were to become something more_"

"Oh for goodness sake Sherlock, just say it, don't hedge around generalities, give it a name."

Sherlock's nostrils flared slightly and John watched as some of his trepidation and vulnerability was replaced by defiance,

"If we were to be in a romantic relationship, if we were to start dating and fucking and actually start living together rather than simply being flatmates, then you would end up hating me." Sherlock hissed, "It would be too much, I would be too much for you. This thing that you feel for me right now it's not going to last John, not forever, not even for a considerable length of time. How do I know this? For starters you're not gay, you've spent from the time of your adolescence to the present date only entering into romantic and sexual relationships with women. In case it has escaped your notice, I am a man_"

"Don't_"

"So you'd try me out, try out this different type of life. You'd make it work for a couple of months, you'd probably even be happy at first, but then our arguments would grow tedious and I would grow tedious and whatever illusion of magnificence and intrigue that you've built up around me would slowly dissipate until you'd want to leave, to break things off, end the relationship and go back to sleeping with women."

Sherlock's eyes burnt bright with an intensity that made John almost shudder, "Do you really think that we could return to being "just friends" after that? It wouldn't happened, we could never restore the equilibrium so you would leave, leave me, leave Baker Street – probably even leave London so that you could forget the past. And then you'd find a woman, someone nice and simple and then you would truly fall in love."

His tone, although slightly mocking, was also laced with bitter contempt, "And you'd think back to this moment, think back to me and realised that you never loved me, not really, not in the true sense of the word. I am not the sort of person who people "fall in love with"; I'm the sort of person who people use to help them get what they need. Lestrade uses me to solve his cases, Irene uses me to entertain herself and now you're using me to fulfill some latent desire to explore a phase in your life that you obviously missed during university. If we did this then I would stop being your friend and would simply become a phase in your life that, once lived, would be instantly forgotten."

He smiled a depressingly sad smile, "You said that this declaration had the potential to destroy you..." he shook his head and looked up at the white washed ceiling, "I might not be made of glass but every structure has its weakness, ever person has some form of weakened heel."

Sherlock finally turned his head from the ceiling and back towards John, "As my friend I ask you not to do this, don't do this John. Please, take it back."

John stared at Sherlock, his heart beating in his throat, his eyes burning hot and threatening tears,

"I can't. Sherlock I can't, not now it's finally out. I thought that I could but I... I can't go back to pretending that I don't feel anything more than platonic friendship towards you. How can we go back to Baker Street and just go on like nothing has changed? You know what I want from you, you know how I feel, how do you suggest I get over this? Do you really think that I could go back to picking up girls, or going on dates? We can't go back Sherlock, I can't un-ring the bell."

Sherlock nodded solemnly but said nothing.

"So, what does that mean for us?" John asked, although he already knew and a sickening feeling was already churning in his chest and stomach.

Sherlock stared back at John, ashen faced and resigned, "If we have no state of friendship that we can return to, nor a new state of relationship that we can progress to, then we must come to terms with the fact that what we once had is gone and what we have now is nothing."

And just like that it was over. John felt motion sick. How had they got from home to here? From declaring love to effectively ending their three year friendship? The events of the past few hours blurred before John's eyes and he had to press his back against the wall to steady himself.

There had to be another way. Something that he could say or do to stop Sherlock from slipping out of his grasp. But as John frantically searched his mind for this something he realised that Sherlock was right. If he couldn't go back and Sherlock couldn't go forward then the only thing for them to do is stay right here, in this moment, staring at each other from opposite sides of the room.

John felt acute sadness swell in his chest as he realised that this was it, they had reached the apex of their relationship and now the only thing for them to do was... leave each other, go their separate ways.

So John stood absolutely still and silent, almost as if by doing this he would be able to hold on to this moment for as long as he could even as he felt it slipping from his fingers. Sherlock was staring back too and even though they were both completely still, John could feel them drifting apart, could feel a chasm being dug between them.

He wanted to reach out his hand and pull Sherlock back to him but it was too late, there was a sound at the door, Irene was returning and the second she opened that door the moment would be broken and their separation would be complete.

John almost called out to her to leave them alone but the key card machine pinged from red to green and the door opened to reveal Irene holding a handful of carrier bags.

"I think I have found you the most disgusting looking piece of knitwear that a human hand has even had a part in making." Irene said gleefully as she threw the other bags into the room and began rummaging around in one.

John and Sherlock exchanged a final look before they turned their attention to Irene, "I mean look at it," Irene said as she held out the offending jumper, "It looks like Mothercare was raped by a rainbow."

The jumper was striped purple, green, orange and blue with thousands of yellow ducks were embroidered onto the fabric. It looked pretty small too which gave John the impression that if he put it on the collar would choke the life out of him and the cuffs would cut off blood supply to his hands.

Irene seemed to be deliriously happy with her purchase and as she looked up from the revolting piece of clothing she beamed at John. He must have looked as broken as he felt because her smile quickly faded and she looked from John to Sherlock, her brow creasing as she took their devastated expressions in.

"Oh boys," she said with a laboured sigh, "What have you done?"

John turned his head towards Sherlock but found that Sherlock was now avoiding his gaze. He wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even acknowledge his presence. The room suddenly felt suffocating and claustrophobic and John just needed to get out.

So that's what he did. He plucked his coat up off the floor, slid his arms into the sleeves, crossed the room and disappeared through the open door. Because he didn't look back he didn't see Sherlock watching him leave.


	16. To Change the State of Play

John would not allow himself to cry. Not over this, not over Sherlock who obviously had no regard for him or his thoughts or feelings. And even though he could feel his eyes burning and his throat growing tight he refused to let the tears come. His head felt light and he had to press his hand against a few of the doors as he stormed down the hotel to prevent himself from falling. He wanted to stop, to take a few deep breaths and work out what he was going to do, but at the moment his proximity to Sherlock was burning him as bright as the sun and he needed to get as far away as he could.

It was physically painful to be in the same building as him, the same town, the same fucking country! He needed to get on a plane or a boat or some system of transportation that would take him to some place where nothing and nobody reminded him Sherlock Holmes.

He was halfway out of the hotel when he heard her call, "John."

Oh no, he couldn't deal with this, not now, not ever, "Leave me alone." He shouted without looking back, hating the way his voice was trembling.

"John, I am wearing heels, and although your legs are short they are longer than mine and I need you to slow down." Her voice was getting closer and John sped up, not wanting to look at her, not wanting her to catch him so that he wouldn't be forced to recite the horrific interaction that had just taken place between him and Sherlock. She would ask and then he would have to replay the entire conversation in high definition and then he would cry, like a child, and he would hate himself for it.

He practically kicked the swing door open and the second the cold morning air hit his face he breathed in a sigh of relief. His cheeks were burning red with a combination of anger and embarrassment and the cold dampness of the chilly breeze cooled him slightly as he charged down the street. He didn't know where he was going, God, he could barely see he was so angry, but it was imperative for him to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, another step further away from the man who had ruined his life.

"John_"

"I said leave me the fuck alone Irene, I don't want to talk to you about Sherlock, he can go fuck himself for all I care." And he meant it in that moment, he really meant it. He wanted Sherlock to suffer for being such an arrogant little_

A hand closed around his shoulder and he quickly jerked around, causing Irene to recoil violently, "Go back." He hissed as he pointed in the vague direction of the hotel.

She looked flushed, her cheeks were stained pink and her hair was coming loose from her bun. She wasn't wearing a coat and John could see that the cold morning air had caused goose bumps to rise over her skin. The sun was just rising and the golden light broke through the clouds, casting bright lines on her face and forcing her to shield her eyes to see him.

She squinted against the sun and said, "You need to calm down."

"Don't you_"

"I said calm down." She said with an authoritative twang to her tone that reminded John of his army years. "Sherlock is upstairs, face smashed into a pillow, groaning like a woman in labour. I had to wrestle two vials of morphine from his hand before sprinting across a carpeted hallway – and down six flights of stairs – to find you. Sprinting, in heels, try it sometime and tell me how easy it is."

She sighed heavily and wiped the back of her hand against her brow and retied her hair so that it hung in a tighter bun at the nape of her neck. John could see the aforementioned vials of morphine clutched in her hand as she continued to wipe her forehead, the glass glinted in the golden morning sunlight and John shuddered.

If this fight had instantly driven Sherlock back to drugs then what would their indefinite separation cause? That is, if Sherlock's attempted reconciliation with strong opiates had anything to do with John, he was a former junky after all and when did they ever need an excuse to shoot up?

Regardless, he was going to have to call Mycroft and at least get Irene to monitor Sherlock until he had worked out how to stop his baby brother from going on a cocaine binge again.

"What happened?" Irene asked, snapping John out of his thoughts, "When I left you and Sherlock looked like you were about to fuck each other senseless. I expected to find you both in a very compromised position – perhaps even doing something that you should only ever attempt with the proper amount of lubrication_"

"Irene." John groaned as he rubbed his face fiercely with his hands as if hoping he could rub the blood out of his face by doing so.

"But then when I returned Sherlock looked practically shell shocked and you... well you looked like you do now."

"And how do I look?" John asked harshly.

Irene cocked her head to the side and examined him with a level of sympathy that he hadn't thought her capable of, "Heartbroken." She said after a moment and John clenched his teeth tightly until his jaw began to ache.

"I am not heartbroken. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have the ability to break my heart, I won't let him."

"No one chooses to be heartbroken_"

"Irene_"

"Metaphorically speaking when you give someone your heart it is theirs to do with what they please and if what pleases them is to break it into little tiny pieces and throw it on the fire then_"

"What do you want me to say?" John hissed with such venom that Irene actually flinched, "Do you want me to admit that I told him that I loved him and he told me that I was mistaken, deluded and only confessing all those false feelings because I was in a state of fucking shock!?"

And here they came, the tears were finally coming and he could no longer hold them back,

"I told him that I loved him, not in a "you're my best-friend and I love you" sort of way but in a "every time I see you I feel like my heart is going to explode and it's driving me insane" sort of way and that is the sort of declaration that you can't take back! I literally got down on my knees and told him how I felt and he..." John couldn't say it again, couldn't recite Sherlock's spiteful words so instead he accused, "You said that he felt the same way."

Irene squinted at him, her lips pursed, barely holding back anger, "He does_"  
"Well then he's got a real funny way of showing it considering I'm out here, shouting at you in a car park – about four seconds away from breaking down and sobbing like a three year old – and he's in our hotel room trying to shoot up whatever opiate you left in the bag. In what universe does this situation – or his response – make you think that he could possibly love me?"

Traitorous tears finally slipped over the corner of his eyes and burnt his cheeks, the droplets turning ice cold in the winter air. He felt ridiculous for doing this but too much emotion was swelling up in his chest and the only way to lessen the pressure in his head was to let it come out of his eyes.

"And now we can't even go back to being friends because I can't go back to the purgatory that is living in a house with him and pretending to only be his mate when every time he so much as yawns all I want to do it fuck him over the back of my chair."

Voicing that particular long denied fantasy of his momentarily derailed John's train of thought but he quickly continued, "So I have to move out." he said as he paced the length of three vacant parking spots, his fingers pulling his hair so viciously it was a surprise that the strands weren't being torn out by the roots, "I have to go back home, pack up my things and work out how to start living a life that doesn't revolve around Sherlock Holmes."

He ended his little rant by shoving his face in his hands and groaning deeply. How had the world gone from fine to fucked up in less than an hour?

Everything was quiet for a long while and at last John looked up to see if Irene was still standing with him. She was, although she looked less than pleased to be there, "John," she said calmly, "Don't you think you're being a little over dramatic?"

John blinked through a layer of tears, incredulity tainting his other emotions, "No I fucking don't."

"Well you are, stop crying and let me tell you how to fix this."

"Haven't you been listening? There is nothing to fix, it's all gone, it's over, our friendship, partnership, co-dependent thing that we had is finished."

Irene actually rolled her eyes at him, "Oh for the love of God John, you're not thinking clearly."

"It's not the first time I've been told that today." John muttered as he kicked savagely at a curb stone.

"John, my dear, please, take off your arse-hat and put on your thinking cap." Irene said as she approached him slowly, "Why do you think that Sherlock reacted in the way that he did?"

"Because he's a_"

"That was said in an angry voice John, anger is not synonymous with clear thinking."

"No, but it feels good."

Irene stared at him impassively, obviously not in the mood for him to deviate from her instructions.

"I don't know what you want me to say! It's because he's Sherlock and he doesn't do relationships, he's married to his work, uninterested in sex or intimacy or everything else that encompasses declarations of love." John huffed as he sat down on the pavement and buried his head in his hands again.

"John," Irene said as if she was talking to a child, "there is a time and a place to reveal the fact that you want buy His and His towels with your best friend and it's not right after you've both been through a traumatic experience. Nor is it when said best friend isn't exactly compos mentis due to the fact that he is high on morphine because the pain of two gunshot wounds would otherwise send him into a delirium of agony."

"I only gave him 5mg; he used to take more than that with his tea."

"The time," she continued, ignoring what he had just said "should have been after you killed Moriarty, got back to Baker Street, were both well rested and not intoxicated with heavy narcotics. You could have gone out to dinner, done as normal people do, and then gone back to the flat and fallen into bed – or smashed each other into various flat surfaces, which ever sounds more appealing."

John blushed crimson. How could he have been so stupid, so rash and impulsive? He blamed the fact that, prior to his confession, he had been kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs for a least ten minutes and such close proximity to Sherlock's potentially hard cock had obviously caused John to experience a moment of insanity.

"Fuck." He said quietly.

"Indeed." Irene agreed as she let out a deep breath and came to sit right next to him on the cold pavement. She pressed her arm against his and even through the thin fabric of his coat he could feel that she was freezing. He slid his coat off his arms and handed it to her – which she took with a combined level of gratitude and shock.

"Oh my boys," she said, half to herself, as she buried herself into John's coat, soaking up his residual warmth, "Why do you both have to make everything so difficult? This could have been so easy." She sighed, "But in one regard it's a good thing – don't look at me like that John – I don't mean that I relish the thought of having to piece this God awful mess back together, but the way it all has transpired is befitting of your relationship as a whole."

"What? Impulsive, irrational, unhealthy and with the potential for mutual ruination?"

Irene smiled, "John, you are too emotionally charged and Sherlock is too emotionally stunted for you both to have an unimpulsive, rational and healthy relationship. You spend all your time dramatising everything while Sherlock is trying to rationalise the irrational... goodness me it's doomed from the start."

"So you don't think that we should be together?"

"God no!" Irene exclaimed "Of course you should be together, you're perfect for one another."

John blinked in confusion, "I don't understand. You agreed that it would end in mutual ruination."

"That's exactly why you should be together. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a love which has the potential to destroy you and ruin the rest of your life?" Irene asked, almost enviously. "Life is so boring when you constantly err on the side of caution, if you wanted to live a safe life then you should have become an accountant rather than a doctor, should have joined an amateur dramatics club rather than the army and should have married a nice, normal woman – probably with some sort of biblical name – rather than falling in love with an emotionally crippled, former drug addict who has a tendency to attract the attention of serial killers and get you strapped to various explosive devices."

Her words were going in but they weren't staying and even though she was inspiring some level of hope in him that this wreck of a relationship could be salvaged, he wouldn't let her sway him too far away from what he knew to be true: Sherlock Holmes didn't want him.

John stared across the rain washed car park, shivering slightly in the bitter cold. The light was growing stronger and soon all the shadows would be chased away by the sun.

"Haven't you considered the possibility that Sherlock is terrified of you?"

John's gaze snapped back to Irene, "Terrified of me? Why on earth would I frighten him?"

Irene stared back, her eyes looking very clear and very blue in the morning light, "Because you alone have the ability to ruin him. That's what love is John, it either makes you far more than you could ever hope to be or it debases and destroys you. Life is a power play of epic proportions and we spend it trying to be just a little better than all those beneath us, trying to obtain more power than we had yesterday. And yet, love cuts us down and puts us on equal footing, stripping us of power and placing it in the hands of our beloved."

And John watched as Irene's eyes glinted with something devilishly wicked, "A man like Sherlock Holmes lives in fear of being powerless, of losing control of himself and control of the world around him. He's not going to give in willingly and admit that he loves you so you have to... force him."

John stared at her and even though he was confused by what she was saying he could feel his heart beating hard in his chest.

"I don't understand, what are you_?"

"You said that you literally got down on your knees and confessed your feelings for him, you placed all the power in his hands and there's no way that he's going to restore the equilibrium in your favour by admitting that he loves you too. That's why you're feeling so helpless now, because you feel like you don't have any power but you do John, you alone can make Sherlock bend to your will. All you need to do is didactically show him – least I should sound too crude – that he's been a bad boy and he needs to be punished."

John's mouth had gone very dry and he could actually hear the blood pounding through his ears, "Irene I... for the sake of clarity..." he took in a deep breath before he said, "What exactly are you telling me to do?"

Irene's responding smile was dazzlingly salacious, "I want you to go upstairs and prove to Sherlock Holmes that you're not going to be frightened away, that you're the one who has complete power over him and thus the outcome of your relationship."

John swallowed, rubbing his clammy hands against the knees of his jeans, "And how do you propose that I do that?"

Irene's eyes had turned very dark and John wondered if this was the way that she looked whenever she was about to do something truly depraved and evil to one of her clients,

"You simply seduce Sherlock until he begs you to fuck him and not stop until he has begged for mercy... at least twice."

John stared at her, opened mouthed as he tried to process everything that she had just said. It was true that he had certainly fantasised – quite frankly – an unhealthy amount of times about Sherlock on his knees, hands tied tightly behind his back, John holding a handful of his black hair as he slowly, and yet thoroughly, fucked Sherlock's irritating, smart-arse mouth. Or the fantasies which involved John pressing Sherlock against the arm of the sofa or the back of the chair or the edge of the desk and holding him down as he thrust into him from behind, listening to Sherlock's moans muffled by the cushions or the hard wood of the table_

"Jesus Irene," John said, breathing heavily through his sudden rush of arousal, "I can't..." he tried to stand up and then realised that he couldn't without revealing his current... state.

"You can't what?" She asked, sounding rather amused.

"I can't... do the things you are suggesting that I do to..." he trailed off, waving his hand in the general direction of the hotel.

"Why not?" She asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Well for starters, fantasying about something and actually doing it are two completely different things_"

"So you admit that you've fantasised about dominating Sherlock?"

John's face couldn't have burnt a brighter shade of red. Irene smiled, "I take that rather stunning blush of yours as confirmation."

"Irene, this is... this is madness. I can't do this, I wouldn't know how_"

"Of course you would, I'm going to show you?"

"Pardon?"

Irene shook her head, "Not literally John because, as I think we've discussed before, although you're very handsome you're not really my type. No, I simply mean that I am going to briefly teach you the basics to the art of domination. The full course takes years – and besides I don't have my ball gags or riding crop with me."

John knew that she was joking but the thought still made him feel faint.

"John, listen to me. Sherlock is up there right now probably sleeping – the poor lamb has, after all, had a very long day. This means that we have about... twelve hours or so to calm you down, get you some tea and teach you how to reduce Sherlock to an incoherent mess of sexual frustration and want."

"All in a day's work then." John muttered.

Irene's lips curled up, "Well it is in mine John. That's what a dominatrix does, I... how did Mycroft put it? Provide recreational spanking for those who enjoy that sort of thing. The only difference now is that I'm teaching you how to do the spanking_"

"I will not... spank Sherlock Holmes." John said, shuddering at the thought.

"That's your prerogative _"

"Irene_"

"You have two choices John. You can either sit here and sulk like a child, trying fruitlessly to work out how to fix the problem that you have caused. Or you can let me help you and find yourself in Sherlock's bed tonight – and every night after that for the foreseeable future. What is it going to be?"

John looked from Irene to the hotel, his mind and body divided. Part of him reasoned that there could be no harm in her suggestion. If the relationship, as it stood, was already ruined then this – whatever it was – couldn't make it any worse. Could it?

John hung his head and sighed deeply before he buried his head in his hands and blocked out the world around him.

He was going straight to hell for what he was about to do.


	17. Torture Techniques

There was the sound of movement. Irritating, infuriating, ill-timed movement coming from somewhere in the room. Sherlock was barely conscious and the sound was so gentle that he didn't bother opening his eyes to see what it was.

Then someone kicked the medical bag on the floor and swore quietly under their breath. This had caused Sherlock to twitch but otherwise remain undisturbed. It was probably Irene, returning from whatever it was she had been doing all day. She'd taken his morphine – which he wasn't best pleased about. He'd have words with her after he'd woken up properly. Not that he needed morphine, he wasn't addicted, only weak minded, instinct slaves got themselves addicted to opiates. He was simply in pain. He simply wanted to feel numb.

The sound stopped and the room fell back into silence. Sherlock drifted in that blissful place between sleep and consciousness for a few more minutes before he felt someone's weight pressing down onto the mattress. The bed rocked slightly as the person crawled towards him.

"Irene," Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the pillow, "Either lie down on the other side of the bed or leave."

The person paused briefly before continuing to come closer. Sherlock felt a knee brush the outer thigh of his uninjured leg and he mumbled something incoherent, as way of voicing his annoyance at being disturbed.

And then the silence was shattered by a howl of pain, "Jesus fucking Christ!"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he was confronted with the sight of John sitting next to him on the bed, cradling his hand to his chest.

"John." Sherlock said, as he blinked in the semi-darkness. Night had obviously fallen and the only light came from a combination of the moon and the streetlamps. In the dim lighting Sherlock could just make out John's figure, his face contorted with pain as he looked at Sherlock with his usual level of incredulity,

"You left the fucking IV needle on the bed." John winced as he held out his open palm for Sherlock to see the needle sticking out of his skin, "Why would you do that? You could have turned over and blinded yourself. It would have required minimal effort for you to have put the bloody thing back in the bag."

Sherlock was, in part, certain that he was dreaming. This moment seemed too surreal for it to be real. Perhaps this John was a mere apparition conjured up by his own unconscious mind. "Why are you here?" He asked as he watched John pull the needle out of his hand and throw it across the room. He sucked at his abused flesh, wincing before he looked up at Sherlock,

"We need to talk."

Sherlock felt his blood run cold at the prospect, he couldn't deal with more confessions or admissions about what John felt or needed or wanted. He didn't think he could take another heart wrenching conversation that would start with John fighting his corner and end with him walking away. His skin itched, the veins in the crook of his arm ached with the longing for the sweet sting of a needle.

"We've already talked John." Sherlock said, "We reached an impasse, a deadlock, an immovable position of decay that will neither change nor correct itself."

John raised his eyebrow slightly, "That's a pretty bleak way of looking at it."

"It's the only way."

"I disagree." John said simply and as he said it Sherlock watched as John exchanged his formerly pained expression for a mask of relative impassivity.

"You... disagree?" Sherlock asked slowly, unsure what else he should say.

"Yes, I've been having a chat with Irene_"

"John, whatever ideas that woman has tried to put into your head will_"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't interrupt me." John said coldly. He seemed calm, unimpassioned and in complete control of what he was about to say and do – which differed completely from his usual loud and irrational bursts of anger. John's change in temperament was making Sherlock feel uncomfortable in a way that he was generally unaccustomed to. He was always the one in control; John evened out Sherlock's level of unexpressed emotionalism by being overly emotional himself. It was the way he liked it. Sherlock enjoyed pushing John's buttons until he exploded. He enjoyed dragging him to the brink of insanity and then shoving him over the edge.

"Sherlock, I wanted to apologise for my earlier outburst." John said as he clasped his hands together and rested them on his left knee, "It wasn't fair of me to spring something like that on you when you were in such an emotionally compromised position."

Sherlock blinked at John a few times, his shock evident to the both of them, "When I was... in such an emotionally compromised position?" Sherlock said each word like it was acid in his mouth. He thought he saw John's upper lip twitch slightly in amusement,

"Yes, what with the shooting, the blood loss, sleep deprivation... I mean you said it yourself, you were on the verge of slipping into shock_"

"I never said such a thing!" Sherlock snapped as he tried to sit himself up in bed.

John placed his palm firmly against Sherlock's chest and slowly, yet forcefully, pushed him back down so that he was lying flat against the mattress again,

"Sherlock, you need to stay still, you don't want to rip open your stitches. Just lie there and let me speak."

Sherlock would have said something but his thought process was momentarily derailed by the scorching heat of John's palm against his skin.

"This is Irene's doing," Sherlock said at last as he batted John's hand away, "She told you to come in here and rile me up."

"No," John said, drawing out the word like he was talking to a child, "She told me to come in here, take you across my knee and then fuck you into the floor."

Sherlock felt his heart rate spike at John's words and even though he knew that he should be trying to take back control of this rapidly devolving situation, he couldn't help but hear a little voice inside him ask, "Well...aren't you going to do that John?" He mentally slapped himself. The body was transport and sex was... just... another impulsive biological, hormone driven weakness.

"I assume that you're not going to take her advice?"

John's upper lip curled up into a salacious smile, "I told you, I came here to talk."

Sherlock sighed deeply and buried the side of his face back into his pillow, "So talk. I'll just go back to sleep. I'm pretty sure I don't need to be conscious in order to follow this repetitive string of nonsense."

John was quiet for a second before he said, with an incongruous level of fondness, "You're such a brat." He sighed, "Sherlock... I think the best thing for us would be if we forgot that this morning ever happened."

Sherlock turned his head slightly and stared at John through narrowed eyes, "Does this mean you are rescinding your..." his mind searched for the appropriate word until he came up with, "declaration?"

John stared at him and Sherlock thought that he saw an internal conflict battling away behind his eyes, "No, I'm in love with you, that isn't going to change any time soon - more's the fucking pity - but I don't think that you're emotionally ready to accept that so I think we should just pretend it didn't happen."

Sherlock felt anger rise in his stomach, "What do you mean I'm not emotionally ready to accept_"

"Calm yourself, you're getting over excited_"

"Don't tell me to_"

"Sherlock if you don't stop moving and calm down I'll have to tie your hands to the headboard." John said as he stared at him with unflinching sincerity. He was serious, Sherlock realised as a cold flash of adrenaline passed down his spine. He tried not to but the image of John grabbing hold of his wrists and tying them down so that he couldn't move crawled through his brain and made him squirm.

This time John did smile, "Or maybe you would like that?"

For one of the few times in his life, Sherlock found that he had been rendered speechless. Part of him wanted to tell John that he was being ridiculous and another, slightly more substantial part, wanted to move and see if John was bluffing. What would he tie his hands with? Would he use his belt? Now a new image entered his mind, that of John rising onto his knees, unbuckling the belt around his waist and then pressing the skin warm leather to Sherlock's wrists before pulling tight, securing him down. He could feel himself growing hard and that was problematic because there was only a thin sheet separating his naked flesh from John's eyes. He was going to see, he would know and Sherlock had no way of hiding it.

John held his gaze for a long time, waiting for his reply. When none came his smile grew more pronounced and he said, "Jesus Christ, Irene was right about you. She's spent the entire day telling me things that I couldn't believe were true. I thought, no, not Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't get turned on by the idea of getting tied up and having someone shove their hard cock down his throat."

John tugged the quilt cover down so that Sherlock was exposed from his head to his hips. Seemingly, John drank in the sight of him before he reached out his hand and gently ghosted it over the skin of Sherlock abdomen. The muscles just beneath the skin quivered and trembled beneath his touch.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, barely managing to keep his voice even as John's fingers moved further down, his fingernails slightly marring the delicate skin of his hipbones. It stung and made him want to rise up into the touch.

"Well Irene and I got to talking and we agreed that it wouldn't be fair for me to simply forget about everything that happened without getting to explore one of my fantasies first. She's a very fair woman, I'm beginning to see what you like her." His hand moved lower and Sherlock held his breath, simultaneously praying that John would both continue and stop what he was doing. His hand hovered over the sheet, his index finger gently pressing against the tented fabric.

"John I don't think_"

And suddenly his hand was gone – much to Sherlock's relief and disappointment. John reached over and plucked up Sherlock's phone from the bedside table. He pressed a button and his face became illuminated by the eerie white light of the homepage. Sherlock listened as he clicked through a few apps until he found the one he was looking for,

"We decided that although tomorrow you and I are going to start afresh and pretend that this never happened, I get to have you for the rest of today." John flicked through a few more things before he said, "The time is now 11.42pm which gives me exactly eighteen minutes to do with you what I want. Look, I even set an alarm." John turned the phone around and showed Sherlock that he had programmed an alarm to go off at midnight.

Sherlock looked from the phone back to John's face, his heart hammering painfully in his chest, "What do you want to do with me?"

"Well a part of me wants to punch you in the face for acting like such a child but I don't think that that would be the best use of the limited time that we have left." John said, shifting so that one of his knees was pressed against Sherlock's side and the other was wedged between his legs, "So instead I think that I'm going to start here," he said, gently pressing the tip of his index and forefinger to the pulse point in Sherlock's neck, "and then I'm going to see how much of you I can taste with my tongue before the time runs out."

Sherlock stared up at him, now completely sure that this was a dream. He'd had similar ones before, usually after they'd finished their latest case and he finally allowed himself to sleep. He had a very vivid imagination, had had since he was a child. This could just be the result of being in the middle of a much needed REM cycle and_ Sherlock shuddered as John got closer to him, leaning his face down so that his warm breath fell against Sherlock's skin.

"John, I don't see how this is going to help us return to some level of normality." Sherlock said, his voice on the edge of sounding panicked.

"It's not," John whispered as his lips finally made contact with the skin of Sherlock's neck. He sucked it into his mouth and gently bit down, not hard enough to bruise but forceful enough to make Sherlock gasp, "I'm simply trying to show you that it's not nice to torture people."

His lips moved down and Sherlock could feel the heat of John's tongue and then the slight burn of a bite as his mouth travelled down his chest.

"John I... I've never tortured you." Sherlock said as he clenched the bedclothes beneath his fingers, trying to maintain whatever level of control he still had. It didn't count if he didn't touch him in return. He was frantically trying to work out how he could delete the sensations that he was currently experiencing when John began to place opened mouthed kisses around his left nipple and Sherlock felt himself growing painfully hard.

"You torture me all the time." John said as he continued his own form of agonising torture, his lips and tongue always getting so close... but then narrowly avoiding actually taking Sherlock's nipple into his mouth. It was maddening and Sherlock let out an involuntary groan of frustration.

"It's not nice is it?" John cooed mockingly as he blew a gentle channel of air against Sherlock's chest, making the place his tongue had been grow cold, "Desperately wanting something and being constantly denied any relief?"

"John, stop it!" Sherlock said but it came out as more of a moan.

"What do you want Sherlock?" John asked, as he looked up at him, his eyes dark, head cocked, lips a mere inch away from Sherlock's neglected nipples, "What do you want me to do to you?"

Sherlock felt his face flush as he thought "So many things". But this was insanity. This couldn't happen! Sherlock was not a slave to his impulses, his body was transport and sex was_"

"Fuck!" He hissed when John lowered his head and finally took one of his nipples into his mouth. He sucked hard and Sherlock cried out, his hips lifting off the bed, his now achingly hard cock brushing against John's inner thigh.

"Now, now Sherlock, what did I tell you before?" John chastised, "Don't move otherwise you'll rip your stitches_"

"John_"

"You should really listen to me, I'm your doctor after all." John tutted as he moved over, pulling Sherlock's other nipple into his mouth. It was excruciating. Sherlock had felt aroused before but he'd never felt a physical, aching need in the pit of his abdomen. He felt like he was about to explode and he wanted everything, all at once. He felt so empty and every inch of his skin that wasn't being touched by John's hands or mouth felt jealous and greedy.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." John said breathlessly as his hands took told of Sherlock's hips and his body began to shimmy down the bed. He was placing open mouthed kisses on Sherlock's stomach but Sherlock couldn't look, if he looked it would become too much, he would completely lose control and he would start to beg and beginning was the sign of a weakling and he was not weak!

So instead he squeezed his eyes closed and took hold of his hair, just feeling the maddening press and suck and bite of John's mouth as he drew closer and closer to_

"I have this fantasy," John said as he licked a line from hipbone to hipbone, "It's one of my favourites. It usually starts with us having this massive argument over something stupid that you've done." John said as he finally ripped away the rest of the covers leaving Sherlock completely exposed to him. The cold air hit Sherlock's overheated erection, making him yelp,

"Jesus John, what are you..." Sherlock swallowed thickly when he finally looked down and saw John crouched between his legs, his eyes staring almost hungrily at his swollen cock. A few immeasurable moments passed before John started kissing and sucking his way down Sherlock's inner thigh,

"Anyway, in this fantasy we're shouting at each other and this time, instead of me walking away to get some air, I go up to you, turn you around and bend you over the arm of the sofa. You struggle but I clasp your wrists tightly behind your back so you can't move, and then I get down on my knees, shove aside your trousers and slowly fuck you open with my tongue."

Sherlock let out a strangled moan at the combination of John's mouth trailing up his inner thigh and the sound of his voice as he spoke those incredibly filthy words.

"If we had time I'd do those things to you, I don't have to be rough; I could be soft and slow and take my time until you scream, begging me to let you cum."

Sherlock felt hot breath fall on the head of his cock and he let out a string of incoherent gibberish as he pressed his palms against his eyes, feeling the burning of the blood beneath.

"God, you look so wanton like that." John said, "Do you know that you're blushing, I can see it staining your neck and throat you... you look so incredibly... Jesus Sherlock, look at me." And his voice sounded so desperate, so uncomposed and raw that Sherlock took his hands away from his eyes and looked down at John.

His cheeks were also flushed and his lips looked swollen from where they had been brushing over Sherlock's body. John's eyes were dark and the way he was looking at him with such reverence, such need, it made Sherlock want to simultaneously cry and scream.

"Are you frustrated?" John asked, his lips turning up slightly.

"Of course I'm fucking frustrated." Sherlock hissed, hating how easily John had been able to turn him into a gibbering ball of carnal want.

"Is there something that I can do to help with that?"

"Oh I'm sure there is."

John looked at him, cocking his eyebrow slightly, "Ask me."

Sherlock blinked, his face growing hotter, "Ask you?"

"Actually I mean beg but I thought I'd save you some face by labelling it under a softer sounding verb."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "I don't need you to do_ ah!" Sherlock's words were swallowed up by a cry when John, unexpectedly, took him into his mouth, sucked once and then released him.

"You were saying?" John asked innocently.

Sherlock thought that his brain might explode, "You... you can't control me like I'm some sort of simpleton!"

"Oh, I think that I've just proved that I can control you, incredibly easily, especially when my mouth is around your cock. Now are you going to beg me to finish what I've started or are you going to continue sitting there like a stubborn child and finish this yourself."

Sherlock stared menacingly at John, watching as his lips curled into a more prominent smile. Sherlock Holmes didn't beg, it wasn't in his nature, not even when he and Mycroft had had their physical altercations as children. It was a sign of weakness, a failing, a flaw of a lesser man than he_

"Time is literally running out."

Sherlock's jaw was clenched tight as he said, "I do not beg."

And then a wicked smile spread across John's lips before he descended and swallowed Sherlock's cock. The pace and the suction was perfect and Sherlock briefly wondered how John knew how to do this if he'd never had sex with a man before, but then John sucked hard and Sherlock's hips bucked off the bed.

"Oh God John." Sherlock had shouted, incapable of stopping himself, his hands re-fisting in the sheets. He wanted to lace his fingers through John's hair but he couldn't touch. This didn't count as long as he didn't touch. His skin felt like it was on fire, his face was blazing and his head was swimming. He felt something tight and dark curling deep in his belly, something that he hadn't felt since he was a teenage boy first exploring his own sexuality. This here, this sheer need and desire and want was new though. He'd never felt this before.

He wanted more. He wanted everything. Nothing was enough, he couldn't get close enough to John and as much as he wanted him to continue he also wanted to feel him pressed against his body, he want to feel the heat of his skin, his lips on his neck, on his throat and then on his own mouth. He wanted to taste his tongue, to taste all of him, to bite down gently on his lower lip and ring out a moan from John's throat. He wanted to see his face contorted in the same wave of pleasure that was currently hitting Sherlock himself.

"Oh God John, oh please, oh please." He wasn't aware that he was pleading, he didn't know what he was pleading for and in that moment he didn't care because all he could do was feel the wet and the warmth and the soft vibrations of John's moans. The fire was building, growing hotter and larger and he was there, on the edge, about to be thrown over the side, all he need was a little more... a little more...

"Oh my... oh fuck, John please_"

An alarm, as shrill and as irritating as there ever had been ripped through the air.

John stopped what he was doing and with a reluctant sigh he released Sherlock's still hard, still aching, cock.

Sherlock opened his eyes, "What... what are you doing?" He asked frantically as he watched John press his heated forehead against Sherlock's thigh. He felt his heavy breath falling against his sweaty skin,

"Time's up." John said hoarsely and Sherlock wondered if that hoarseness was caused by his own arousal or the fact that he had just had Sherlock's cock practically rammed down his throat.

"What do you mean, you can't... you can't just stop!" Sherlock said as he watched with despair as John extracted himself from the bed.

"That was the rule, we had until midnight_"

"But you can't_"

"Look it's for the best." John said, as his eyes continued to rack over Sherlock's body with longing, "From this moment we start afresh, we can just go back to being friends – like you wanted."

Sherlock gaped at him, "But... but what am I supposed to do about..." He said gesturing to himself.

John shook his head, "I would advise you to tug one off but then, friends don't tell friends to masturbate. Irene got you some new clothes; I think there are pyjamas in that bag. After you've... dealt with that you should get dressed and go back to sleep. I'm going to have a shower."

And before Sherlock could say anything, John had plucked up a bag from the floor and had headed into the bathroom.

Sherlock fell back against the pillow: What on Earth had just happened?

The second he had closed the bathroom door John fell to his knees, buried his face into the bathmat and groaned deeply. His heart was beating so fast in his chest he could barely breathe and his legs felt like jelly and his body felt as if it had been wound up and coiled as tight as a spring. His erection was pressing painfully against the seam of his jeans and his shirt was clinging to the liberal amount of sweat that had gathered down the length of his spine.

His head was swimming, his brain pounding painfully against his skull. He could still taste Sherlock in his mouth, could still feel the heat and the gentle pulse beneath the skin. It had been agonising to walk away but Irene had told him that he would have to fight against it. He wasn't allowed to give Sherlock what he wanted – not yet at least.

In the other room he thought that he heard the bed creak and Sherlock let out a strangled moan. John slapped his hands against the tiled floor and then adjusted himself in his jeans. This night was going to be excruciating.

He just hoped that this plan would work as well as Irene assured him it would. Otherwise both he and Sherlock would be needing a few years of serious therapy.


	18. The Other Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hello my dear readers, my exams are over, my brain is clear and now I can write this story guilt free. The person who usually helps me proof read my chapters is unavailable at the moment so... I apologise in advance for the few *cough* lots *cough* grammatical errors you shall encounter. And now cue Irene:

Irene Adler adored awkward silences. She loved the shifting movements, the way that people's eyes became restless and uncertain of where to linger for too long. And the longer the silence stretched on the tighter the tension became until people would say and do anything to make it stop. Irene had always gotten a perverse sort of pleasure from watching people squirm and now, as she watched Sherlock and John sit awkwardly opposite each other, blushing like two adolescent school girls, she felt almost giddy with happiness.

Irene had been hiding her shit eating grin for the past half hour as she watched the two stumble awkwardly around each other. On their way from the hotel to the cafe they were now sitting in, Sherlock had lost his footing slightly and had instinctively reached out for John to help him balance. The second his hand had made contact with John's shoulder both of them had sprung apart, frantically apologising and bumbling like idiots,

"I'm sorry I didn't mean_"

"No of course, I should have_"

"It was my fault_"

"You've been shot, I should have been aware_"

"You don't need to be aware of me_"

"Of course, I mean, I know that you... I know that I_"

"Boys, unless one of you plans on speaking in full sentences I suggests that you both close your mouths and keep quiet."

And they had. They had quite literally pursed their lips, hung their heads and had trailed behind her in absolute silence. Irene had found it simultaneously adorable and ridiculous.

They were now in one of the seaside cafes. There were dozens of fake plastic fish stuck onto the lime green walls and the place stank of frying bacon. A woman with skin as shiny as grease and a face that looked like it had been made of melted wax, stood behind the counter, staring glumly at every customer who handed in their order.

The sun had risen just a few hours ago and, judging by the purple rings beneath their eyes, it was clear that neither Sherlock nor John had slept at all last night. Sherlock hadn't touched his tea, instead he kept holding his fingers over the cup and wriggling them about to disturb the stream of steam. John, on the other hand, kept sipping his and then immediately refilling it to give him something to do.

Currently Irene took a sip of her tea and cleared her throat. Both John and Sherlock's heads snapped up, their eyes eager and almost pleading with her to create a distraction.

"So what are we going to do about our little predicament?"

John and Sherlock's eyes briefly met and Irene perceived a flicker of unadulterated fear mar their features.

"I assume that you are referring to Moriarty?" Sherlock said at last.

"Of course dear, what else would I be referring to?" At the sight of her dazzling smile Sherlock scowled, his face turning puce with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

"You could be referring to any one of a number of things considering you have a way of creating "little predicaments"."

Irene clasped her hands together on the table and smiled tightly, "I don't like your tone Sherlock."

"Well I don't like people who don't play fair."

"You can only play by the rules when the rules exist."

"They do exist, you simply have no regard for them.

"Let's stop being subtle Sherlock, don't allude to what you mean, say it out loud and be clear."

"I can't, not while there is a third party present." Sherlock said as his eyes flickered pointedly over to where John was sitting.

Irene turned her attention from Sherlock and said, "John darling, do you think that maybe you could go up and order us all some eggs on toast?"

John, who had been watching the interaction as avidly as a tennis fan would watch a game at Wimbledon, blinked a few times before he opened his mouth and said,

"Err... yes, alright." He got to his feet, began to walk away and then turned back, "Um... what sort of eggs do you want."

"It doesn't matter John, Irene only suggested it so that you could leave us alone to talk about you in private."

"Yes Sherlock I gathered that."

"Then why are you asking a ridiculous question?" Sherlock asked as he turned his head to look at John. For the first time that morning they looked each other right in the eye and didn't look away. It was almost a display of sheer defiance, with neither daring to look away before the other. Irene's eyes traced John's face and saw lust and anger battling away beneath his skin. To punch or to fuck? Sherlock must evoke that particular dilemma in John most of the time.

"John dear," Irene said, drawing John's attention back to her, "You can punish him later for being rude, but for now could you please leave us to have a nice quiet argument?"

John's face reddened slightly before he turned and quickly walked towards the counter. The second he was out of ear shot Sherlock turned in his seat and practically hissed,

"What sort of game do you think that you're playing?"

"Game? I'm not playing a game."

"You told John to... to do things to me... last night."

"Yes I did, and going by the tense way that you're sitting, I'm willing to guess that he followed my instructions to the T."

Sherlock's nostrils flared with rage, "Do you have any idea what you've done? You have effectively flung us into a state of perpetual purgatory."

"Oh don't be so dramatic."

"We can't even look at each other_"

"And whose fault is that? They're your eyes, you can choose in which direction you want to point them."

"That's not the point, you are the one who orchestrated all this madness_"

"Sherlock what are you so angry about? The fact that John sucked your cock or the fact that he didn't suck it long enough?"

Sherlock looked as if he had just been slapped in the face. His eyes grew wide and his face turned a shade of bright red. Irene watched as his fingers curled into tightly clenched fists on his knees. After a few seconds had passed Sherlock said slowly, "You had no right to do what you did."

Irene leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her tea, "I didn't do anything. I simply gave John a few ideas. I didn't force him suck your cock any more than he forced you to enjoy the feeling of his tongue on your skin_"

"Could you stop saying that?!" Sherlock said as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Why? Because you don't like hearing the truth?"

"Because I don't want to be reminded of it. For the past eight hours and thirty seven minutes I have been trying, and failing, to delete that particular memory from my mind palace to no avail. Those images have been seared into my brain and that is why I can't look at John because every time I do all I see is face between my legs."

"Now who's being crude?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long sigh of impatience. He pressed the pads of his fingers to either side of his temple and rotated them in soothing circles.

"Sherlock," Irene said as calmly as she could, "Do you want him? Do you want to be with John?"

He was silent for a long moment, the pressure of his fingers dusting his forehead pink, "It is the epitome of futility to want that which you cannot have."

"And it's counterproductive to live a life of denial."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, "I'm not in denial."

"I never said that you were in denial Sherlock, but you are denying yourself happiness_"

Sherlock snorted, "You think that my entering into a romantic relationship with John would guarantee me happiness?"

"No darling, I'm simply assuming that it would."

"I don't want things to change."

"They already have_"

"Then change them back!" Sherlock snapped loudly, causing a few of the fellow diners to turn around and look at him. "Everything was fine before you came along and whispered into John's ear, filling him with stupid notions about love and relationships_"

"Oh honey please," Irene said with a roll of her eyes, "I might have encouraged him but I didn't put those thoughts in his head. Things have been changing between the two of you for a while now and pretending that they haven't isn't fair on you and it isn't fair on John. If you continue sticking your head in the sand then you will lose him and it will be your fault."

"He's not gay."

"For goodness sake, you say that like it means something. Who cares if he likes fucking men or women, the important thing is that he wants to fuck you. I've never understood why people put so much weight on labels."

"Well, in about six months time when he's standing by the door, loading his things into a moving lorry saying "I'm sorry but I'm not into men anymore" I think labels will become extremely important."

Irene stared at Sherlock for a long moment in disbelief, "Good Lord, you either have a very low opinion of John or an extremely bad track record of failed relationships."

Sherlock said nothing, he simply stared at Irene, silently communicating that he wasn't going to continue that particular branch of the conversation.

"Alright Sherlock, I won't pry, some secrets need to be kept. But answer me this: do you really want to see him with someone else? Because he won't be able to stay with you forever in a platonic relationship. He's not like us Sherlock, he needs physical and emotional companionship. If he can't be with you then he'll be with someone else."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared at his hands, "I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"That is what I said Irene."

"So you'd be perfectly happy for him if he found a woman, got married, brought a house and had a few kids who would call you "Uncle Sherlock" rather than "Daddy"?"

Sherlock brought his fist down on the table, causing the cups and the tea pot to rattle and clink together, "Stop it. Stop provoking me, stop pushing. This has nothing to do with you. This is not your life. When all of this crashes and burns you'll be viewing it from afar rather than burning to death in the fire. Stop interfering in our lives and stop playing your games."

Irene held his gaze for a long moment; saw the anger mixed with a trace of genuine pleading. She almost relented, feeling that perhaps she had over stepped the mark and that maybe Sherlock was right – God knows she'd hate it if someone tried to impose their opinions on her personal life. But then she saw something on the other side of cafe that caused all thoughts of resignation to desert her mind.

It was a woman: average height, petite build, bobbed blonde hair. She was pretty, age appropriate and wearing no engagement or wedding ring. But the woman herself wasn't what had caused Irene's thoughts to derail, it was the fact that this pretty, unattached, age appropriate woman was staring shyly at John from the corner of her eye. John hadn't noticed her because he was too busy knocking the display of chocolate bars onto the floor.

Irene watched as the woman's eyes traced the curve of John's back and legs as he bent over to pick up what he had knocked over. She watched as the woman smiled slightly as John apologised profusely to the sour faced woman behind the counter and laughed quietly when he accidently squashed several chocolate bars under his foot.

It was just too much for her to resist, almost as if the Devil himself had placed this woman before her, gift wrapped and waiting to be used.

"I promise not to give John anymore ideas. I promise not to encourage your budding sexual relationship and I promise that the next time John gets down on his knees and takes your cock into his mouth, I won't tell him to stop before you cum. Happy?" Irene asked as she watched the woman stand up and disappear into the customer bathroom. Her eyes came back to Sherlock's and she smiled. He seemed a little startled but before he could say anything she said, "Excuse me, nature calls."

Irene weaved in between the closely packed tables until she reached the door that led to the toilets. The space was cramped and the smell of fake lemons battled with the overpowering stench of urine. There were two closed off toilet cubicles and the woman was occupying one of them. Irene waited, hopping up on the counter by the mirrors. She quietly ran the tap, wet her forefinger and then wiped it across her eyes, gently smudging her mascara. Then the toilet flushed and Irene quickly buried her head in her hands.

Irene listened, staring into the darkness of her cupped hands. The woman opened the cubicle door and then stopped, obviously startled by Irene's presence. In the silence that followed Irene let out a little sob for good measure.

"Um... are you alright?" The woman asked hesitantly.

Irene feigned surprise, quickly snapping her head up, "Oh yes, I'm so sorry, I didn't think anyone was in here."

The woman shifted uneasily from foot to foot, obviously wondering if she should stay or leave as quickly as she could.

"Is there any tissue paper in there?" Irene asked and the woman quickly dug into her pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues,

"These will be softer on your eyes." She explained as she handed Irene one.

"Thank you. God I feel so embarrassed." Irene said as she dabbed at her eyes. When the woman said nothing Irene continued, "It's my brother, I think I saw you looking at him, he was at the counter being his usual clumsy self."

The woman blushed a little, "Oh yes, I... yes I saw him. What's wrong?"

"Someone recently broke his heart, rather tragically really. He's been so upset, that's why me and my husband – the man I was sitting next to, I don't know if you saw him – well we decided to bring him down to the seaside for a little break. Our parents used to take us to the beach every summer, he used to love it but... he's just so unhappy at the moment."

Irene sobbed once more before she continued, "I just don't know why she'd cheat on him with that awful degenerate gambler. My brother's such a wonderful person. He's so kind and funny... but I suppose ever since he got back from the war he has been spending more time at work – he's a doctor, takes solace in helping people." Irene said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

The woman stood there, shifting uncomfortably, still obviously torn over what to do. Irene dabbed her eyes again before she said, "If only there was some way to prove to him that their break up had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that she was a cheating slut. But you know how demoralising it can be to be cheated on by someone you love?"

The woman stared at her for a moment before she shyly nodded.

"It just makes you feel as if you'll never be loved or wanted again. He won't listen to me every time I tell him that a good, deserving woman will fall in love with him..." Irene dabbed her eyes and then made a show of contemplating something, "I wonder... oh no it's silly."

"What?" The woman asked.

"Well... I know that this is asking a lot but do you think... well... do you think that maybe you could, oh I don't know, just flirt with him a little? You're just such a pretty woman and exactly his type, it might help to boost his confidence a little."

The woman blushed brighter and opened and closed her mouth a few times before she said, "I don't know... that sounds... I'm not that sort of woman_"

"No of course not, it was stupid of me to ask. I'm just desperate, I want to see him smile again. I hate it when he's unhappy."

The woman tucked a strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear and looked at the door and then at Irene again, "I... I don't think I'd be very good at it. And isn't this a little weird? It would be strange if I just went up to him and started flirting in front of his sister?"

"I could say that you are an old friend of mine from university?" Irene said eagerly as she hopped off the counter, "You don't have to be obvious, just make him smile, please, it would mean the world to me."

The woman sighed deeply, "I... I could try?"

"Oh would you? Oh that would be so... thank you so much. God, I don't even know your name, how rude of me."

"Mary," the woman said, "Mary Morstan."

"Well Mary, I know that John is just going to love you."


	19. Illogical Conclusions

Sherlock could tell that John was struggling not to berate him for playing with his food. Every time he scooped up a spoonful of scrambled eggs and let them fall back onto his plate with a wet splat, John's nostrils would flare slightly and his jaw would clench a little tighter. It was a natural default for John to scold him whenever he refused to eat and it was obvious that his self imposed silence was battling against his need to nag.

Sherlock hid his smile as he began crumbling pieces of toast onto his plate. John made a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl. He knew that he was goading him but he didn't care. Perhaps he could annoy John into speaking to him – like he had on numerous occasions.

John finally cleared his throat and swallowed down a mouthful of his own breakfast before he said, "Sherlock, are you going to eat that?"

"Does it look like I'm going to eat this John?" Sherlock asked as he flicked a fragmented piece of toast across the table.

"You need to eat something."

"I am aware."

"Then why aren't you?"

"Because I'm not hungry."

John finally let out a loud groan and buried his head in his hands, "Jesus, you're acting like a child. Do I really need to start spoon feeding you?" John muttered.

"I suppose you could, although I don't particularly relish the thought of you shoving something down my throat."

John snorted and then immediately blushed crimson.

"How very lewd of you, John." Sherlock said as he desperately tried to fight off the rather overtly sexual images that had just swarmed his brain. In particular one which featured him on his knees, hands tied behind his back, as John thrust his cock into Sherlock's mouth as he_

"I wasn't trying to be lewd." John said, cutting off Sherlock's rapidly devolving thoughts, "I'm just... you need to eat Sherlock, your body needs food for fuck's sake."

"I understand how the human body works John – probably better than you."

John's eyes finally cut to Sherlock's, "You are such an arrogant bastard. You think that you know everything_"

"Not everything John, that would be impossible, but I do have a solid understanding of everything that matters."

"Well obviously you don't." John hissed quietly so that none of the other diners would hear, "Otherwise you could have waved your magic genius wand and this… thing between us would never have happened."

"I am not to blame for this." Sherlock said as he gestured at himself and then towards John, "I wasn't the one who complicated things."

"Our relationship was always complicated, normal friendships don't involve psychopaths_"

"I'm a high functioning_"

"I'm not talking about you, you bloody egotist, I'm talking about the serial killers and mad men and evil geniuses that you seem to attract like a magnet. I have feared more for my life in these pass three years than I did when I was fighting in Afghanistan!"

"And you've loved every second of it." Sherlock said as he accidently slammed his fist down into his plate of scrambled eggs, "You're a danger whore, you get off on this sort of thing. If you hadn't found me you would have found someone else to regularly give you your fix."

Sherlock watched as John's eyes flashed bright with unadulterated rage and incredulity, "So you're saying that all of this is my fault?"

"Of course it's your fault." Sherlock said as he wiped clean his hand with a napkin, "You're the one who agreed to move in with me."

"That's because I had nowhere else to go. And I only agreed to live with you, not to accompany you to every crime scene like some sort of groupie fascinated with the macabre."

"You obviously didn't mind going considering you started blogging about our cases!"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"It's evident that your blog details your growing obsession with me."

"Obsession with you? You're the one who sabotaged every romantic relationship I've been in since I started living with you. What do you think that says? That perhaps you have a touch of possessiveness towards me?"

"If we're making a list of who committed what indiscretion I think it should be noted that you're the one who held me down and sucked my cock last night. What does that say about you John?"

Everything seemed to fall silent. John was staring back at him, his eyes wide, face flushed, completely taken off guard by this rapid turn-around in their argument. It was the first time either of them had admitted – out loud – as to what had happened last night. Up until this moment it all felt very much like they had shared a collective, hazy, drug induced dream. The reality and magnitude of what they had done hadn't truly sunk in until this moment and the staggering force of conflicting emotions that swelled up inside Sherlock made him feel dizzy.

"I thought..." John started and then cleared his throat, "I thought that we agreed never to talk about what happened, to start afresh after midnight?"

"John," Sherlock said slowly, as if he was speaking to a foreign tourist, "When I was three years old Mycroft threw my Winnie the Pooh teddy bear out of the window and into the rain. Despite our mother's desperate attempts to get me to forget the incident I never did and I doubt I ever will. I don't forget things John, I don't put them behind me and I don't "start afresh". If I can't forget something as trivial as that then what makes you think that I'll be able to forget you telling me that you want to fuck me open with your tongue?"

Before either of them could react to what Sherlock had just said, someone cleared their throat. Sherlock looked up and saw Irene standing over him, her hand on her hip, eyebrows raised slightly as way of conveying her battling levels of amusement and annoyance.

"You must forgive my husband, he has a very cruel and rather disturbing sense of humour. He gets a perverse pleasure out of tormenting my brother."

Sherlock was perplexed for two whole seconds before he noticed the small, blonde woman who was standing next to Irene looking like a skittish pigeon.

_Thirty-six, only child, menial job... something tedious in the private sector... probably a receptionist or some sort of PA. Lives in London, small flat, two_ no, three cats – one ginger, two tabbies. Unattached, single, never been married, recently heartbroken – boyfriend most likely cheated on her with a close friend_ no, family member, possibly her sister_ no, mother. Not dating but looking for someone__

Sherlock's jaw clenched shut as he finally looked back at Irene, his face impassive, his eyes practically murderous.

"Darling, guess who I just ran into in the bathroom." Irene said as she came and sat down next to Sherlock, gesturing for the woman to take a seat beside John.

"No." Sherlock said as he watched John slide over in the booth to allow for the woman to sit next to him. Their eyes met, the woman blushed, John smiled.

"This is Mary Morstan, we went to university together."

John looked at Irene, his eyebrows raised in disbelief – he obviously hadn't worked it out yet but he had been around Sherlock enough to know when to simply follow along and not ask questions, "Oh really, well that's... a coincidence?"

"No it isn't." The second Sherlock said it he felt Irene's fingers curl tightly around his inner thigh in warning. He knew what she was doing: presenting this woman in front of John in the hope that it would provoke Sherlock to some base level of jealousy to prove her previous point. But it wasn't going to work; she looked far too timid and socially awkward to effectively attract John's attention – at least not before Sherlock worked out a way to frighten her off.

Irene settled herself closer to Sherlock on the booth and smiled falsely at Mary, "I thought that it would be nice if we all had breakfast together, have a little catch up_"

"So why are you down here instead of back in London?" Sherlock asked, interrupting Irene and causing Mary to turn her attention away from John.

"I... um_"

"It's a Monday, surely you have work... unless you've been fired – which is unlikely because you keep feeling your pocket, presumably for your phone which means that someone keeps texting you, it can't be your boyfriend because he recently left you for your mother. Your skittish nature and lack of confidence speaks for itself, you obviously don't have that many friends – at least none who would text you compulsively. So one can only assume that you have an overly clingy boss who relies heavily on you to do everything and in your absence is panicking slightly. So you're on holiday, using up some of your vacation days for a break in which you can fully bask in your early midlife crisis and despair over the horrific nature of the male sex – something women have a tendency to do after they have been jilted by a former lover. You needed to get away but your low paying job gave you few options thus why you find yourself in a dying seaside town, eating greasy food out of unclean plates while simultaneously trying to scout out a mate with whom you can start to procreate with – obviously a nagging need in women of your age. I should thus take this opportunity to tell you now that although John is fertile, he has no immediate plans to start spreading his proverbial seed."

Mary stared at him wide eyed, her mouth hanging open slightly, "How did you... how did you know all_"

"Sherlock darling, was that really necessary?" Irene asked.

"You said that you wanted to catch up."

"Yes, but that generally involves a nice ebb and flow of conversation, not a monologue – especially from the ignorant party_"

"I'm not ignorant. Mary, was I wrong about anything?"

Mary just sat there for a moment staring dumbfounded at Sherlock. He felt his lips trying to twitch into a smile. She was just like all of John's former girlfriends, they didn't like the truth to be laid before them, especially in such a blunt and "tactless" – as John often referred to it – way.

He was waiting for her to storm off in an offended huff when she finally opened her mouth and said, "That was... incredible. I don't know how you knew all of that but... that was amazing."

Sherlock blinked, "You're not offended?" He asked, trying to mask his incredulity.

"No, not at all, I'm sort of in awe actually. I've never seen someone do that before, it was like watching a magic trick."

Irene made a noise that conveyed her satisfaction which only went to infuriate Sherlock further.

"Was I wrong about anything?" He asked again, this time his voice taking on a coldness that even sent a chill through his own veins.

"Um..." she blushed a deeper shade of red before she said, "My boyfriend didn't leave me for my mother he... um... left me for my... father."

Sherlock watched John turn in his seat so that he could see Mary more clearly.

"Really? That must have been difficult."

"What break up isn't?" She asked rhetorically as she picked up a paper napkin from the table and started to tear it into tiny squares, "But you got everything else right." She said, directing a small smile at Sherlock almost like she was praising a child.

How dare she? He didn't need any validation from her, he needed no smile of encouragement to know that he had be right about everything else. And why was she smiling? She should be blaming him for her state of obvious embarrassment, not praising him for his blatantly bad behaviour.

Sherlock saw slight movement from his side and when he looked over he saw Irene gesturing subtly to Mary who nodded and said, "So Irene told me that you're a doctor. What's that like?"

John opened his mouth to answer her but Sherlock quickly interjected, "He was once an army doctor, simultaneously stitching up men while facing enemy fire. He is now working as a GP in which his day mainly consists of dealing with hypochondriacs and handing out excessive amounts of antibiotics. It is a life of relative tedium, repetition and boredom - hardly a good conversational topic."

Irene's fingers dug tighter into his leg and John shot him a look of withered annoyance. Mary continued to smile that infuriatingly understanding, partly amused, smile at him.

"So um... how long ago did you get back?"

John, who had been staring at Sherlock reproachfully, looked up at her and said, "Around three years_"

"Three years, four months and eleven days." Sherlock interjected again, not liking how easily Mary was leeching up all of John's attention.

"Well you look like you just got back_ I mean in a good way, not that you look haggard or anything, just that you still look really strong – muscled even. Do you... um... work out?" As soon as the clichéd question had passed her lips, Mary groaned and buried her head in her hands.

To Sherlock's horror, John merely chuckled and blushed like he was some sort of adolescent school girl.

"It's the jumpers." Sherlock said quickly, "They create the allusion that he's a lot larger than he actually is – very much like a sheep in summer."

"And how would you know? You've never seen me naked."

"I've seen you walking around dripping wet after you've had a shower with only a towel around your waist." Sherlock looked at Mary, "He's a short, pale, chubby little man – hardly an ideal potential sexual partner."

He was lying of course. John, although comparatively short, was by no means pale or chubby. His stomach was larger than Sherlock's, but his arms, chest and legs still maintained the firmness of his former years of service. He knew that women found John attractive and going by the doe eyed, star struck way that Mary was looking at him now, Sherlock realised that she was no exception. In fact, she seemed far from deterred and, in response to Sherlock's comment, she simply smiled salaciously at John and said,

"Although I'm sure your friend is grossly underestimating you, I do have a thing for short men. My first crush was actually Bilbo Baggins, I thought that when I got older we were going to get married and live in the Shire." She said sheepishly.

"Are you likening me to a Hobbit?" John asked, mildly amused.

Mary's smile widened, her former hesitation and embarrassment slowly eroding as she warmed to her theme, "No, I'm simply stating that I have a thing for shorter men."

"So you're calling me short?"

 _Why are you smiling John?_ Sherlock thought, _it's not a compliment to be likened to a tiny, hairy footed creature from a fantasy novel!_

"Not so much short as... nicely compacted." Mary said as she inclined her body towards John.

As Sherlock watched the two continue to converse and flirt with ease he felt a burning sensation radiate from his chest and into his throat. The sensation was similar to that of rage but with a few subtle differences: unlike anger, this feeling was mixed with a level of gnawing desperation and vulnerability. Never before had he yearned for John's attention more than he did in this moment and the fact that he was being ignored was driving him insane.

Sherlock was startled by the feeling of Irene sliding her arm through his and resting her head against his shoulder. He felt her tilt her face up until her lips were brushing the shell of his ear,

"Jealously suits you Sherlock, you're very endearing to me right now."

"I'm not jealous." Sherlock hissed – although his blushing cheeks belied his claim. He knew that he was seething with jealously, but jealously was a sign of a lesser man, one who was ruled by his emotions, so he could never admit to suffering from that particular affliction.

"You have to learn," Irene continued, "that John isn't your toy, you can't play with him when you want and discard him when you're bored."

"Isn't that what he's doing to me now?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice low so that he wouldn't disturb John and Mary's conversation.

"Is it driving you insane darling? If you feel like this now how will you feel when the inevitable happens? He will leave you one day Sherlock, he needs companionship."

"He'll leave me anyway." Sherlock said as his eyes flickered between John and Mary, taking in their smiles and slightly flushed faces.

Irene hummed her assent, "That is a possibility, although not a definite outcome of your impending romantic relationship. However if you do nothing and deny him any hope of being with you then he most definitely will go."

"So I lose either way."

"Possibly." Irene conceded as she softly nuzzled his neck, "Although the former option at least gives you a chance of prolonged happiness. Isn't that worth the gamble?"

"I don't like gambling."

"But you do like experiments. Why don't you do what you do best? Strip away all the emotions and the complexities of the situation and simply devise an experiment. If the outcome is successful then you continue with the relationship, if it isn't... well at least you tried. At this moment your conclusion that entering into a romantic relationship with John will end only in pain and disaster is completely illogical... and I thought you abhorred the idea of ill founded deductions?"

Sherlock sat up in his seat, his brain suddenly starting to ignite. Although he knew that she was manipulating him he couldn't deny that out of all the options that were presented to him, the one now forming in his brain seemed to be the most appealing. It had the chance of making things burn with brighter clarity without digging either him or John into a proverbial hole. Perhaps there was a way of keeping John without changing the parameters of their current relationship. If this worked, maybe they could go back to what they were before.

"You have a plan don't you?" Irene asked, her excitement evident in her voice.

Instead of answering her Sherlock disentangled her arm from his and said, "John I think I've been too hasty."

John – who had been laughing at something Mary had said – looked up at Sherlock in sudden bewilderment, "What?"

"I've been too hasty_"

"About what?"

"Us."

John flinched back almost as if he had been slapped in the face. There was no way of describing the complete look of shock that was currently dominating John's features, "I... what... do you think that you could possibly elaborate further?" He practically choked out.

Sherlock nodded, trying to maintain a calm composure as he said, "I believe that I have prematurely come to the conclusion that any potential romantic relationship that we could enter into with each other would end badly. And yet, I have no empirical evidence to support this conclusion."

Irene coughed slightly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes, "Irene had a part to play in me seeing the error of my own analysis." He said begrudgingly.

John blinked a few times, obviously not seeing what Sherlock was getting at. Sherlock sighed impatiently before he said, "Isn't it obvious what I'm suggesting?"

"No Sherlock, not really, do you think you could possibly make it a little clearer?"

Sherlock bit back his irritation and instead focused on communicating his intent as clearly as possible, "John, I'm asking you to go on a date with me."


	20. The Game is On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello *she calls to an empty room*? I'm incredibly sorry that I've been gone for so long. I've been anxiously awaiting my A-level results and now they have finally arrived I can relax and continue with this fic. I really hope my past readers haven't given up on me, if you have I completely understand. Anyway, this chapter was getting too long so I cut it in to two, the other section will be up at some point in the week. Please forgive any grammatical errors, I've stayed up til 3.00am writing this in time for the bank holiday so I'm rather knackered. I hope you enjoy.

"Sherlock, this is not the definition of a date!" John shouted over the howling wind as he trudged through mud and clumps of half frozen grass. They had been walking for over an hour and John's feet were starting to feel numb. Sherlock – in his true long legged fashion – was striding several meters ahead, forcing John to practically sprint to keep him in eyeshot.

"I know you've never been on one before, but traditional date activities include going to the cinema or getting something to eat at a restaurant, with candles and wine and comfortable conversation. Trekking through a field, in subzero temperatures, while watching your arse disappear into the distance is not what I would classify as a fucking date!"

This had been a bad idea, he should have known that Sherlock's warped mind would have corrupted any semblance of normality out of what should have been an enjoyable evening. But then John supposed that this was mainly his fault. You didn't date Sherlock Holmes. You dragged him out of drug dens or argued with him as you scraped exploded organ out of the microwave. You didn't date him. It was wrong. It went against nature. It was like soaking the roots of a plant in pure ethanol. You just didn't do it.

"Could you slow down?" John asked and then swore loudly when he slipped and hit his knee against a tree stump. The sun had just started to set and now shadows were encroaching on them from the tree line, making John feel slightly anxious about the impending darkness. It felt like they were walking into battle and John wasn't used to going into a fight without a gun tucked into his jeans and Sherlock standing directly beside him.

"Hurry up John." Sherlock called, "You're lagging."

"If you tell me to hurry up one more time I'm going to beat you to death with the next rock that I find." He muttered as he readjusted the bag on his back. He didn't know what was in it; Sherlock had simply thrust it at him before they set off, saying that "We'll need them later." What "them" referred to he hadn't explained however every time John shifted the strap from one shoulder to the other, something clinked inside the bag.

"Where are we going?" John asked – not for the first time since they had started trekking through the wilderness.

"We'll be there in a minute."

"That's not an answer."

"Well it's the only one I'm willing to give."

John stopped walking and – even though he didn't know how – Sherlock must have sensed this because he stopped walking too. John heard him sigh loudly before he turned and began closing the space between them with the speed and effortless ease that only a long legged man could possess. When he was less than a meter away Sherlock stopped, his cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion of having walked miles with an injured leg.

"I'm taking you back to the windmill." He said.

John stood speechless because for a second he didn't understand what Sherlock was saying, "The windmill?" He asked dumbly but as he took in Sherlock's expression of sheer exasperation, understanding smacked him full in the face, "The windmill? The place where, less than a day ago, I was held hostage by Moriarty? The place where we both almost died?"

"Technically it was almost two days ago but yes of course, what other windmill would I be talking about?" Sherlock asked, utterly perplexed.

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and breathed deeply a few times before he said, as calmly as he could, "Why are we going back there?"

Sherlock seemed to consider his answer for a few seconds before he said, "Because I want to play a game with you."

John opened his eyes and saw that there was a small, excited smile tugging at the edges of Sherlock's lips, "You want to play a game? I thought we were going on a date?"

"We are. The game is the date – or at least the first stage of it."

"How many stages are there?"

Sherlock's eyes briefly flitted towards the bag on John's back, "A few." He said.

Although Sherlock's obvious excitement was infectious, John couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive. Playing games with Sherlock – although not necessarily pleasant – were never boring nor particularly safe.

"Is this game... dangerous?"

"No, it's informative, illuminating even. It will make you see everything much more clearly."

Deciding that Sherlock was being as ambiguous as he possibly could - and knowing that he wouldn't get a better answer if he asked - John turned his attention to the next worry that was niggling at him.

"Are you sure it's safe for us to go back there?"

"Of course, calculating psychopath Moriarty may be, unoriginal he is not. Whatever he's planning on doing he wouldn't be as sloppy as to try and kill us in the same location twice. That's the mark of a common criminal not a sadistic artist."

"Is that how you see him? As an artist?"

Sherlock eyes, which had grown vacant with thought, refocused on John, "It doesn't matter how I see him, all that matters is how he sees himself. Self perception is one of the most important things in life: if you see yourself as a victim then that's what you become. If you see yourself as a monster then that's what you turn into."

"And what about if you see yourself as unlovable?" John asked as he squinted at Sherlock in the dying light.

Sherlock blinked, obviously taken off guard by the personal nature of John's question. The comment had hit him at his very core and it took him a few moments to compose himself. Finally he shrugged in a way that, John assumed, was supposed to convey nonchalance, and said "Then I suppose you would live a life unloved."

"That doesn't sound very productive."

"I never said it was." He snapped, "It was simply an observation – albeit rather trite and overly philosophical. I was merely trying to make conversation, isn't that what you're supposed to do on a date? Talk about things that retain neither substance nor merit?"

"Wait," John said, trying to contain his smile, "We've already started our date? This... the past hour that we spent arguing and shouting at each other while walking through a field... this has been the beginning of our date?"

Sherlock glanced around them, taking in the marsh land and ice, the scattered piles of sheep manure and the thousands of gnats that were currently floating around their heads.

"I suppose so. Why? Were you expecting something different than this?"

John stared at Sherlock for a moment: his shoulder wound had wept a little and dark, rusty coloured blood had stained his shirt. His hair, uncombed and windswept, looked chaotic, almost like it had been inhabiting nesting hedgehogs and the skin around his eyes looked dark from a lack of sleep and an overabundance of stress. John was sure that he looked similarly knackered, wearing his creased coat that was starting to smell musty with a combination of sweat and rain water.

This was what it looked like to go on a date with Sherlock Holmes and, although he should have been, John wasn't in anyway disappointed. And as he took in Sherlock's dishevelled state he felt a strange feeling starting to burn in the pit of his stomach and, for reasons best be-known to him, John had a sudden, almost aching, desire to grab hold of the lapels of Sherlock's coat and kiss him. Because although it was irrational and completely incongruous to their surroundings, it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Without thinking, he took a step forward, reaching out his hand slightly until it gently brushed against one of the lapels of Sherlock's coat. It wouldn't take much, he only needed to take another step to close the gap and then they'd be as close as face to face as their height difference would allow.

John had a tenuous grasp of Sherlock's coat, almost as if he didn't want to commit to what he was about to do, like he was giving them both an option to back down. It was an intimate thing, kissing, perhaps even more so than the things that had happened between them the night before, because this sort of connection felt almost childish. Too innocent and tender to befit the cataclysmic nature of their relationship.

But nevertheless John took another step forward and finally looked up at Sherlock. He appeared panicked, frantic even as he felt John tugging on his coat, causing his back to bow forward slightly, putting him at a better angle. John leaned closer until neither of them were under any doubt as to what was about to happen.

He tugged harder on the coat and heard Sherlock's breath hitch. John slid one hand up his neck and into Sherlock's hair, knotting his fingers around the strands and angling his head so that his mouth would be at a slight slant.

John inclined his head, felt his lips brush briefly against Sherlock's. They both shuddered. Breathed in the other's breath. John tugged his hair, causing Sherlock to elicit a barely audible whimper. They were so close but not quite touching and all John had to do was move a fraction to the right to finally taste his lips_

Sherlock flinched back violently, taking four long, backwards strides away from John, "That's breaking the rules." He said breathlessly as he scrubbed his hand across his flushed face.

John, who was a little disorientated by being so suddenly left alone, had to take a few moments to realise that Sherlock was speaking to him,

"What rules?"

"The rules of the game." He said, sounding almost angry, "You're not allowed to do that. I have it all planned out, it's all in my head and it will work. But you can't go around changing the rules before we've even started, not until I show you."

"Show me what?"

Sherlock stared at him, his face draining of emotion and colour until it lapsed back into its usual state of cold impassivity, "We need to get going," He said finally, his voice devoid of feeling, "It'll be dark soon." And with that he turned and began striding away from John as quickly as he possibly could.

John stood there, slightly shell shocked, his lips still tingling in anticipation of what they had been about to come into contact with. He watched as Sherlock got further and further away from him and for a second he was sure that he was simply going to leave him behind. But then he called,

"Hurry up John! We need to start the game."


	21. I've Never

Returning to the windmill felt less traumatic than John had been expecting. Usually people only returned to the scene of their abduction to seek some level of closure, to tuck up their trauma and put it to bed, not to go on – what appeared to be – a rather aggressive date with a self-confessed sociopath. But then again, John couldn't deny that Sherlock had helped him heal faster and more efficiently than any therapist had. Maybe that's why, as he sat in the same room he'd been imprisoned in not forty-eight hours before, he felt nothing but excitement coursing through his veins.

"Sherlock stop lighting candles! It's starting to look like we're sitting on top of a birthday cake." He said as he watched Sherlock light another one before placing it among the others on the wooden floor. He had thought, when Sherlock first unzipped the rucksack and pulled out a massive bag of tea lights, that he was only going to light a few to banish away the darkness and icy air from the room, but now it seemed that he was hell bent on lighting them all, effectively turning the windmill into a blazing ball of fire.

"If you're worried about the accumulation of carbon monoxide you needn't fear," Sherlock said as he lit another candle, "The room is well ventilated."

"Honestly Sherlock you need to stop, it looks like we're about to take part in a satanic ritual."

"Isn't this what people do on dates?" Sherlock asked as he struck another match, "Look at each other through the haze of candle light."

"Yes, but usually they do it by the aid of one or two candles, not fifty."

"Just a few more." Sherlock said, touching the flame to another unlit wick.

John decided not to argue and instead contented himself with watching Sherlock flit from place to place, lighting candles as he went. He also couldn't deny that the room did look rather pretty bathed in golden light and Sherlock appeared strikingly attractive, wandering around like the embodiment of a shadow. It was strange for them to be alone like this, so completely isolated and removed from the rest of the world by miles of woodland and marshy field, with no dead body between them or the omnipresent eye of Mycroft Holmes casting judgment on their every move. The idea that he had, in this moment, Sherlock's undivided attention was simultaneously both nerve wracking and exhilaratingly hedonistic.

"So what game are we going to play?" John asked as he watched Sherlock – who had finally dispensed with lighting candles – rummage around in the rucksack. Instead of answering him, Sherlock simply pulled out a bottle of vodka and two small shot glasses, placing them in front of John like some sort of sacrificial offering.

John stared at the items for a few seconds, watching the flickering candle light reflected in the glass, "You want... to play a drinking game?" He asked incredulously. Although Sherlock had a penchant for shooting up any opiate that came to hand, he'd never shown the slightest interest in alcohol.

"I didn't even know that you drank." John said as he picked up the bottle and examined the label. It wasn't the cheap sort of vodka that you brought at the corner shop and knocked back with your nose pinched just to get drunk quickly. And even though he didn't know much about strong spirits, John knew that this bottle had to have set Sherlock back at least forty quid.

"Why are we going to play a drinking game?" He asked as he finally looked up from the label and saw Sherlock staring at him, his palms pressed together beneath his chin. Although his expression was impassive, his eyes belied a level of sad resignation.

"Alcohol tends to render people uninhibited and thus more likely to tell the truth. I need you to be frank with me John, otherwise this experiment won't work."

"Experiment? I thought this was supposed to be a date."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "I've combined the two."

"Of course you have." John said as he rested his back against the wall, feeling more affection for Sherlock than he probably should in this moment, "Exactly what are you testing?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"Because the very act of observation changes that which is being observed."

"But I already know that I'm being observed."

"You don't know what I'm observing though."

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face a few times before he said, "Fine, let's just get on with it."

Sherlock smiled slightly – obviously proud of the ease at which he had irritated John into a state of submission. He then proceeded to uncap the bottle and fill the two shot glasses with about an inch of the clear liquid, "Have you ever played the drinking game "I've Never"?" He asked.

"Err... once, I think. You'll have to remind me."

Sherlock scooted forward and John carefully moved his glass out of the way before he could spill it all over the floor, "The rules of the game and incredibly straightforward – made simple so that the drunk and inebriated would be able to continue playing it until its bitter end. One person says "I've Never..." and then they say something that they've never done. If the other person has also never done the aforementioned thing then they don't drink, if they have then they consume the shot. The game continues, each person taking their turn, until they either run out of alcohol or are knocked unconscious by the copious amount of ethanol coursing their veins. Do you understand?"

"Yes." John said hesitantly, simultaneously unsure and slightly unsettled as to why Sherlock was intent on playing this game, or why he had insisted on them playing here of all places.

"Good, now I'll begin with something light to start us off." Sherlock said as he handed one of the glasses to John – who dutifully took it. "I've never been in a child's playground."

John blinked, "You've never... what like the slide and swings part of a park?"

"Yes." He said in that slow, patronising way of his.

"How is that possible? Didn't you and Mycroft go when you were little?"

"No, our mother hated them. She was always terrified that we would fall off a climbing frame and break our necks or concuss ourselves on the side of a slide and die of a brain bleed. She allowed us to play on the beach though whenever we took a trip to the seaside – so long as we wore a life vest in the water and reapplied suntan lotion every half an hour to prevent skin cancer."

John smiled at the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft as children, tottering around an overcast British beach wearing massive, neon orange life vests and enough suntan lotion to make them look like emaciated snowmen.

"You two never had a chance did you?"

"A chance to do what?"

"Be normal." John said as he pressed the shot glass to his lips and sucked back the freezing liquid in one gulp. It burnt the back of his throat as he swallowed and instantly started to warm him belly. "Christ," John winced, "This stuff is strong."

"I am aware." Sherlock said as he refilled the empty glass. The action caused the cuffs of his coat to slide upwards and John was momentarily transfixed by the sight of Sherlock's exposed wrists. His skin looked almost translucent in the candle light and John marvelled at just how easy it would be to bruise his delicate flesh. He'd never thought of Sherlock as fragile before – seeing him more as some sort of invincible being rather than a mere mortal - but in that moment, staring at the thin layer of skin that covered the intricate web on blue veins on his wrist, John was unnerved to realise just how breakable he was.

"It's your turn."

"What?" John asked, his gaze snapping up from Sherlock's wrists with a speed that almost gave him whiplash.

"It's your turn to state something that you've never done."

"Oh, right, um..." John scanned his brain briefly before he said "I've never taken dancing lessons."

Sherlock's right eye twitched slightly. He stared at John impassively for a moment before he picked up his glass and consumed the shot.

"You've taken dancing lessons?"

"You don't have to sound quite so gleeful; lots of boys are forced to take dance classes by their mothers."

"What sort of dance was it?" John asked, leaning back against the wall, trying – and failing – to hide his shit eating grin.

"The point of the game is to make statements, not ask questions."

"Indulge me."

Sherlock's jaw was set tight and John perceived, even in this light, that the tips of his ears were starting to turn red, "I took ballet until I was fourteen. My mother forced me to, she was concerned that I wasn't getting enough exercise."

"Were you any good?"

"Not particularly, I had neither the inclination nor the desire to traipse across a stage on tiptoe to the sound of Tchaikosky's Nutcracker Suite. I used to hide in one of the window seats behind the curtain with Mycroft_"

"Mycroft took ballet too?"

"Of course he did, mothers usually subject all their children to the same brand of torture. He looked particularly hideous in his leotard – was teased relentlessly by the other children for having such a large pot belly at the age of eight."

John stared at Sherlock, trying to keep his face straight when he asked, "Are there any pictures of the two of you in these leotards?"

Sherlock shot him a venomous look, "A few," he said tightly, "I tried to burn them but our mother pitched a fit. We came to an agreement that if she promised to keep all photos exiled to the attic, I wouldn't destroy them_ stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm some sort of kitten that's fallen asleep in a teacup."

John smiled, "It is a rather adorable image_"

"It's not adorable," Sherlock said as he pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around him – with slightly more drama than was needed, "It was an embarrassing period in my life that I had to suffer through out of love for my mother and an illogical filial desire to keep her happy. Now, can we please get back to the game?"

"Oh by all means," John said, "I'm starting to enjoy myself immensely. It's your turn."

Almost an hour later the bottle was three quarters empty and John was feeling boneless. Most of the candles had burnt out and the room was looking a lot cosier with only a few flames still flickering. John didn't know exactly how it had happened but he was shoeless and his legs were slung over Sherlock's thighs.

Neither of them was drunk, not yet, but John's brain was buzzing pleasantly and he would have been happy to stop drinking if Sherlock hadn't insisted that they keep playing.

"I've never... really minded having Mycroft as a brother." Sherlock said slowly as he toyed with his empty shot glass, "Sometimes I wish that someone would brutally murder him in a fit of justifiable irritation, but he's not... bad you know, I wouldn't... not have him as a brother if I had a choice. I quite enjoy having him alive rather than dead."

"I'm sure Mycroft would weep with joy to hear you say that."

"Mycroft can't weep," Sherlock said as he lay down flat on the floor and rested his hands behind his head, "he has no tear ducts."

John snorted and closed his eyes, contented to sit still, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's belly beneath his foot and the sound of his soft breathing,

"We should do this more often," John said, "take a break from all the serial killer chasing and dead bodies and just drink ourselves drunk in 221B. Mrs Hudson could join in! And Mycroft! Has Mycroft ever been drunk?"

Sherlock made a deep, gravelly humming sound, "Once – that I've seen – after he graduated with a first from Oxford. He came stumbling home at around midnight and vomited all over the stairs. Our mother was not best pleased."

"I can imagine." John mumbled as he started to doze. The warmth and the relative darkness were acting as a siren call and he was finding almost impossible to remain awake...

"John wake up! It's your turn."

"What? Oh God... I don't know..." John moaned as he gently prodded Sherlock in the stomach with the tips of his toes, "I've run out of things that I've never done – which is a good thing I suppose... shows I've lived a fulfilling life."

"There has to be something else," Sherlock said as he struggled to sit up, "Think."

"I'm trying." John muttered as he buried his head in his hands and tried to scrub himself sober. His brain didn't want to think, it was too busy processing all the alcohol in his system. He was too sleepy to keep playing this game and he was about to tell Sherlock that he gave up when suddenly a thought came to him.

He looked up from his hands and stared at Sherlock, slightly dumbstruck that he hadn't thought to ask before, not just during this game, but earlier when they were having their argument in the hotel. It seemed so obvious now and the thought of it effectively brought him back from the brink of sleep and sent his heart beating a little faster.

"Have you thought of one?" Sherlock asked as he refilled his glass, his accuracy was slightly off, which caused him to spill a little on the floor.

"Um... yeah." John said, now feeling slightly apprehensive about bringing the subject up. Surely there must be a reason why Sherlock had neglected to talk about it – especially when he was so frank about everything else.

"Well go on then."

John swallowed and waited until Sherlock was looking at him before he said, "I've never had sex with a man."

Although the room had been quiet before it seemed to fall into a deafening silence now. The easy smile that had been playing on Sherlock's lips instantly vanished and his face grew tight and impassive. His expression was unreadable but, even by the dim light; he saw Sherlock's face grow pale. The change in his demeanour was almost frightening and the longer John watched him sit there in silence, the more unnerved he became.

Sobriety and awareness was starting to creep back into his features with each passing second, almost as if the shock of what John had said was sobering him up. An immeasurable amount of time passed in which Sherlock neither moved nor spoke.

Just when John was about to ask if he was alright, he finally showed signs of life. With slow, controlled movements, almost like a clockwork toy, he plucked up the full glass of liquor from the floor and brought it to his lips. Even though John couldn't be sure, he thought that he saw Sherlock's hand tremble before he opened his mouth and sucked down the shot.

He was transfixed, feeling almost like he was in a dreamlike state, as Sherlock placed the glass back on the floor, looked up at him and said, almost defiantly,

"Yet another thing we don't have in common."


	22. The First Time

There were rooms in Sherlock's mind palace which he liked to keep permanently locked. They contained various incidents, thoughts and feelings that, regardless of how hard he tried, he couldn't forget. He rarely had to recall the contents of these rooms – having effectively banished them as far from his daily thoughts as he could – but now he could practically hear John rattling on one of the handles, trying to get in, and he knew that he would be expected to reveal what hid behind a few of them.

They had been sitting in a contemplative silence for the past ten minutes, with Sherlock being reluctant to be the first to speak and John being obviously lost for words.

It was unnerving to see him so engrossed in thought like this, so intent on trying to work out the: who, what, when and how. Perhaps if he applied this level of avid deduction to their cases, Sherlock wouldn't have to go through the laborious task of explaining everything all the time.

"You had..." John finally said but then abruptly stopped when words failed him, "But I thought... who... he_"

"Are you planning on reciting every pronoun in the English language or are you actually going to start speaking in full sentences?" Sherlock snapped.

John, obviously undeterred, asked – with that special tone of incredulity which conveyed that he wanted an explanation rather than a simple answer – "You had sex with a man?"

Sherlock felt his face grow uncharacteristically warm and, to his intense horror, he realised that he was blushing. "Yes." He said, rubbing at his cheeks in a hope to try and disperse the hot blood that was pooling beneath his skin, "This really isn't something that we need to discuss."

John made a noise at the back of his throat that sounded like something caught between a laugh and a snort, "No, come on. This is like... like... You had sex!" He finally exclaimed, "You had sex with a man."

"Yes John I am aware." Sherlock said as he clenched his fists together, grimacing as he felt the sweat that had accumulated on his palms. In fact his whole body was starting to feel abnormally clammy and warm.

"But... I mean..." John continued, obviously impervious to Sherlock's state of growing discomfort, "that's something that requires a bit of discussion."

"Why? I don't ask you about the personal details of your past sexual experiences."

"That's different. We're talking about you having sex with a man, not me getting off with some girl from the local pub. I... well I honestly thought that you were still a virgin."

"Evidently not." Sherlock said tightly.

This time John must have sensed his unease because he said, "Look, you don't have to give me specific details, all I want to know is the general... gist of what went on."

"Going by your web browsing history, I'm sure you understand the dynamics of gay sex pretty well."

"Sherlock," John said, and he could tell that he was holding onto his patience rather tenuously, "Stop being facetious and tell me what happened."

"There's nothing to tell," Sherlock said as he stripped himself of his coat, suddenly finding the growing warmth of his skin unbearable, "I simply made an error of judgement."

"When?"

Sherlock rubbed his face fiercely with his hands and then pressed his palms together, resting them against his chin like a pilgrim in prayer. How had the situation devolved to this? This was not part of the plan, not part of the game they were supposed to be playing. John was meant to see just how incompatible they were, just how different their lives had been.

It should have formed a venn diagram: with Sherlock's experiences on the right and John's on the left with no linking intersection in the middle. They shared no common ground, the drinking game was supposed to illustrate that, to prove to John that there was no way they could be anything more that friends and flat mates, but now...

He was about to unlock the door to a moment in his past that he had tried his hardest to forget. This was intimacy, in the true sense of the word, and Sherlock didn't like feeling so exposed and raw.

He sighed deeply before he said, "Do you really want to know?" His heart beat fast as he listening, waiting for John to deliver his verdict.

"Yes."

*****

2001, University of Cambridge: School of Physical Sciences.

The night it happened there was a celebratory postgraduate leavers' party taking place in the main hall. I remember feeling the vibrations of the pulsing, heavy bass music through the floor. I didn't understand the attraction of dancing to music that sounded like an amplified version of an ultrasound heartbeat because even separated by several walls of concrete it was still giving me a headache.

I was sitting in the corner of my old research lab. The lights were off and the room was devoid of all forms of human life – with the exception of myself. I would often sit in that room after the technicians locked up and went home. It was a place where I could open up my mind and just let my thoughts wonder. The darkness aids the thought process: by cutting off visual stimulation you allow your brain to focus on other things. That, coupled with the gentle hum of the centrifuges and the dull drone of the air conditioning would often help lull me into an almost dream like state.

I had grown rather fond of that room over the past five years and that night, on the eve of leaving it forever, I couldn't help but feel a little... lost. I'd heard most of my fellow MSc graduates talking about the various job offers they had received but I knew that there were very few vocations that would suit me. Which job, after all, provides daily mental stimulation and a level of financial stability without the presence of colleagues or clients? I wanted to be given work that ignited my blood, made my brain ache and my eyes burn from the sheer number of hours that I would have to spend trying to work out the answer. But I also craved isolation and for some overly sentimental – and juvenile reason – I had convinced myself that the only place I would ever feel safe was in that lab where I could condense my entire world to one magnified glass slide. So I sat there that night, clinging to the last few hours I had to be alone in my self self-proclaimed haven.

It must have been about midnight when I heard male voices approaching. Going by their obnoxious loudness and incoherent conversation, I discerned that they were all probably heavily inebriated. They were approaching the door, and, not wanting to be noticed, I slid myself underneath one of the desks closest to the window. I sat there, looking like some errant school boy, waiting for the upcoming onslaught of light and noise that would soon enter the room.

The voices grew closer and I watched as someone turned the handle and opened the door, only about an inch, which allowed a shard of fluorescent light to stream into the room. Three fingers curled around the frame and through the babble of laugher and incoherent dialogue of the drunken men, I heard the man closest to the door say,

"Boys, I know that tonight is all about casting off the shackles of knowledge, but please try and reduce the amount of brain cells lost to the consumption of cheap liquor, at least until you are out of the confines of this establishment."

I recognised the voice immediately; it belonged to my, now former, degree advisor: Dr Fredrick Koffë. He was one of the younger lecturers at the college – being only about thirty-nine – and had a deeply ingrained state of inner calm and an outwardly expressed impassivity of nature that bordered on apathy. He always used to conduct lectures with a level of intense lethargy which rendered most students practically unconscious halfway through the session. He expressed a level of contempt for the entire student body, often reading out particularly poorly written essays with the intention of humiliating the author. He rarely stopped in the hallways when someone tried to address him and, when he did speak to a student or answer one of their questions, it was always in a patronising tone of voice. However, I seemed to be his one... exception.

During our one to one meetings, Dr Koffë had always found reasons to prolong our sessions together, getting me to read a particularly long article or continue questioning me long after our allotted hour had run its course. He would also shake my hand at the beginning and end of our meeting and, although I had no point of reference at the time, upon later reflection these handshakes did always feel rather lingering. I was rather flattered to be honest, assuming that it was because he found my insights and obvious intelligence rather stimulating. I thought he saw me as an equal, someone who he could converse with – academically speaking – and, at the age of twenty-three, that sort of special treatment was greatly appreciated. However, now, with the aid of hindsight, I realised that Dr Koffë had been harbouring feelings of a much... different kind.

After the drunken group of men had continued down the hall – obviously heading back towards the party – I watched as Dr Koffë finally pushed the door fully open and stepped inside. At first I thought that he had left his coat in the office or was here to pick up some papers to grade, but to my surprise I saw he looked directly at me like he had known that that is where I was going to be. He didn't look shocked by my presence – all hunched up under a desk, sitting alone in the dark – in fact, he looked as if he had come here with the sole purpose of finding me.

The door was still open and by the stream of light I watched him stare at me for a few seconds. Even though it could have been a trick of the light, I thought I saw his Adam's apple bob slightly in his throat, almost as if he was swallowing nervously. He stood silent for a moment before finally saying,

"Are you paying homage to your place of learning?"

I shrugged, "I suppose you could put it like that. I simply like the peace." I stressed the last word slightly in the vain hope that he would get the hint and leave. He didn't and instead ventured further into the room.

Without his hand to hold the door open, it swung shut and we were plunged into darkness. I wasn't frightened, I was simply a little disturbed by the idea that there was a person in the room with me that I couldn't see.

I listened though and heard the sound of his shoes snapping against the laminated floor. He grew close to me and then stopped. After a few seconds I was startled by the metallic sound of the blinds being opened and the sight of pale moonlight flooding into the room. The moon illuminated the figure of Dr Koffë, I could only see up to his knees because he was standing directly in front of me and the desk was obscuring my view.

Several seconds passed before he moved away from the desk and then, very carefully, he sat himself down in front of me. His sudden close proximity made me flinch slightly and I moved out from under the desk in order to feel less cornered.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, feeling slightly irritated that he seemed intent on ruining my former solitude.

He smiled – the first smile I think I had ever seen him bestow on another human – "I came looking for you."

"Why? I'm no longer your pupil."

He nodded, "This is very true – and I shall lament the loss of you in my class. You're going back to your family home are you not?"

"Yes, Mycroft is driving down tomorrow to pick me up."

"Ah, yes, I remember your brother Mycroft, he didn't attend Cambridge as a full time student, but he did venture over here a few times for debate challenges and the like." Upon which Dr Koffë cocked his head slightly and stared at me in contemplation, "You two look nothing alike. Where you are thin, pale and good looking, he was blotchy, overweight and had a rather off-putting face. He had an absolute respect for authority whereas you seem to have nothing but contempt for authoritative figures. How is it that one brother was born with a back bone and the other spineless?"

I think there's an established double standard that all siblings understand: it's fine for you to openly ridicule your sibling but it's not acceptable for someone else to do the same. Because of this, his comment about Mycroft irritated me immensely and I sounded quite sharp when I said,

"We came from the same womb but we didn't spring from the same ovum, why shouldn't we look and act dissimilar?"

"I meant nothing by it, it was simply an observation."

"Yes, and a rather trite one."

At this Dr Koffë smiled again, this time showing off a line of white teeth, "That is what I think I'll miss the most about you. Your obnoxious mouth. Are you unaware that you're being rude or do you take pleasure from being insubordinate?"

I was a little taken aback by his confession and was starting to sense that our conversation was shifting into a different sort of territory, "I suppose it's a combination of the two." As I spoke Dr Koffë shuffled a little closer and I caught a whiff of aftershave and recently applied antiperspirant, "What special event are you attending tonight?"

He seemed surprised by my question, "What makes you think I'm attending a special event?"

"You recently shaved. I saw you this morning at the awards ceremony and you had an inch of stubble. Now why would you shave so late tonight but not this morning? The same can be said of your clothes, this morning – when you should have dressed up for the occasion of bidding a formal farewell to all the postgraduates – you wore one of your oldest and most shabby suits. However, going by the evenly positioned creases in your trousers and shirt, you recently dressed in the suit you are now wearing – one which you must have brought a while ago but have neglected to wear until tonight. And then there's the question of your shoes, they're brand new, never been worn and for that reason they're rubbing the heels of your feet. Why wouldn't you wear them in a little first before you wore them out? Surely that would soften the leather and make them more comfortable to walk in? So that means that you knew that you wouldn't be walking too far. Need I go on or have I supplied sufficient evidence to back up my former question?"

Dr Koffë, who had been watching me throughout my speech with a growing smile on his lips, said, "How do you know that I haven't just come from a special event?"

I snorted, "Please don't insult my intelligence Doctor."

"Oh that I would never do Sherlock; that would be an act of sacrilege. But humour me nevertheless."

I sighed, in no mood to explain the obviously apparent, "You smell of antiperspirant."

"Most people do."

"Yes, but most people apply it before they leave home. If you were coming back from attending your special event then the odour of your spray would have dissipated and been replaced by the smell of sweat – it is, after all, June. Your suit smells clean, as do you, which suggests that the only trip you've made this evening is from home to here."

Dr Koffë's eyes wandered from mine, instead favouring to take in the sight of my throat for a few seconds. I watched him swallow before he said, "After deducing all that, can't you work out what the special occasion is?"

I shrugged, "I could but I have neither the interest nor the inclination to do so."

He made a strange noise at the back of his throat – something half caught between a groan and a growl - "Someone really needs to teach that mouth of yours a lesson. You have no idea how often I've wanted to do just that but... the regulations of the university forbade it."

"As does the law."

His brow puckered slightly in confusion, "The law doesn't prohibit... wait, what are you referring to?"

"Corporal punishment. Isn't that what you were talking about? You wanted to beat the insubordination out of me?"

He laughed at that, "Oh Sherlock, how is it that you can be so intensely bright and dim at the same time? You don't have a clue do you?"

"A clue about what?"

Instead of answering, he rummaged around in his back pocket. A second later he pulled out a square piece of foil and placed it on the floor in front of me. I picked it up and examined the label – as good as I could in the poor lighting.

"It's a prophylactic." I said perplexed.

"Indeed it is. Now use that brilliant brain of yours and deduce why I've given it to you."

For the first time – I think in my life – I was unsure of the answer that I was supposed to give. I turned the tiny square over in my fingers, allowing the moonlight to catch on the shiny foil. I looked from it to him a few times, again taking in his new clothes and freshly applied cologne. It was then that I realised that I had been incredibly blind, I wanted to smack myself for appearing so utterly naive and ignorant.

"You're here for me. I'm your special event?" Even as I said it I felt my throat grow uncharacteristically dry and my pulse quicken. He'd put in a lot of effort, for a man who usually took so little pride in his physical appearance. He'd come here with an intent, with the sole intent of having sex with me. I wasn't sure why. Why had he set his sights on me?

He must have sensed my growing panic because he said, "Don't worry yourself Sherlock, I'm not going to force you to do anything that you don't want to do. You are perfectly within your rights to tell me "no thank you" and I'll leave without a fuss. I'm simply putting forward an opportunity that you may wish to experience."

I sat there, even though I loath to admit it, completely dumbstruck. The prospect of having sex – with either a man or a woman – had never really interested me. The idea of physical intimacy disturbed me and, knowing enough about the science of sex, the thought of swapping any kind of bodily fluids with a fellow human made me feel ill.

Instead of addressing that particular issue straight away I said, "I'm assuming that you've waited until now because of the university's policy regarding fraternisation between staff and students."

"You're too proper Sherlock. "Fraternisation" is not synonymous with "fucking"."

I swallowed as quietly as I could before I held up the condom, my fingers trembled slightly and I knew that he had noticed, "You want me to use this?"

"On the contrary," Dr Koffë said, taking the package from my hand, "I'll be the one using it. All I want is your consent."

"You want me to consent to_"

"Fuck you, Sherlock. I want you to agree to let me fuck you. Don't act like a simpleton, not after five years of smart mouthing me. You know what I'm asking_"

"But I don't understand why. I've never given you any indication that I would want to take part in this sort of thing."

Instead of answering me he reached out and traced my throat, his eyes following the path his fingers made. He seemed transfixed and when he spoke he sounded almost disorientated,

"You don't think about it do you? Such a primal, base desire that consumes almost every other creature on the planet but you... you're just not interested in sex are you? You don't know what it's like to burn with desire, to watch someone every day and want nothing more than to feel their skin. It's so incredibly destructive Sherlock, so paralysing."

And that was when he slid his hand between my legs. I remember gasping, being shocked by the sudden intimacy of his contact. At first I tried to move away from his touch, but with my back already pressed against the wall there was nowhere for me to go.

"I don't think... I think you should stop."

"Why? I can feel that you're getting hard. You like it." He said as his hand continued to stroke my – now fast growing – erection, "Has anyone ever touched you like this?"

Incapable of speaking I simply shook my head. It was just how he had formerly described it, while he was touching me I was hit with a sort of paralysis, my mind banishing itself of rational thought and instead being solely focussed on the feeling his hand was eliciting. No one had ever touched me like that before and I found that, as much as I was uncomfortable with this sort of physical contact, I was also incredibly aroused by it. So I didn't protest, instead I watched him touch me, my hips involuntarily surging forward to meet his strokes. But it wasn't enough. There wasn't enough heat or friction and I remember feeling incredibly frustrated in a way I hadn't encountered before.

"Think of this as an experiment." He said, his voice much rougher this time and sounding a lot less composed than before, "Let me present you with a new experience, one that you can learn from. A last impartment of knowledge from me to you."

His hand had slipped inside my trousers at this point and I remember covering my face with my hands to both smother my moans and hide the blush that was bleeding into my cheeks. I was feeling incredibly self-conscious and, illogically, rather ashamed that I was responding in the way that I was, that I was seemingly incapable of stopping him.

"Will you let me?" He asked, his breath sounding rather ragged – almost matching mine. "Will you give me your consent?" I tried to think logically but my thoughts were scattered, things were moving too quickly, spiralling out of control and I couldn't process what was happening.

"I..." but before I could answer his hand disappeared and in its place I felt his mouth pressing against my erection through the fabric of my trousers. After that it was impossible for my mind to formulate any other answer but "yes".

He proceeded to make me climax using his mouth – which was incredibly pleasurable and intense – but the following anal sex was... horrific. It hurt and burnt with a sort of blunt pain that I hadn't experienced before – or since. Every time I tried to pull my hips away, to try and lessen the force of his thrusts, his hands would always pull me back. He kept telling me to relax but I couldn't. He rubbed the length of my spine in an attempt to dissipate my tension but it did nothing to distract me from the pain. I didn't know how to tell him that he was hurting me and, considering he'd given me pleasure before, I felt obliged to return the favour. So I settled on resting my head against the floor and breathing through my nose in an attempt to stop myself from whimpering.

Thankfully it didn't last too long – seventy-four seconds to be precise. And once he was finished he got dressed, wished me luck with the rest of my life and left.

*****

Sherlock had edited the last part of his story as much as he could, simplifying it down to the bare facts. He had omitted the part about how he had lain in the lab until morning, feeling dazed and uncharacteristically hollow. He hadn't told John how he had hugged Mycroft – for the first time in his adult life – when he had turned up to collect him that morning. Or how Mycroft had quickly worked out what had had happened the night before and, instead of making some malicious comment, he had simply prolonged their embrace and said quietly, "Oh brother mine, I haven't protected you very well have I?" Or how he had lain down in the back seat of the car because he couldn't sit without feeling pain radiating through his pelvis.

He also hadn't been able to look at John throughout his narration, instead favouring to stare blankly at the wooden beam that ran down the length of the ceiling. He didn't want to look at him now, to see his reaction, his face contorted with sympathy or – worse yet – pity. He despised being seen as weak and he knew that this particular story cast him in the role of victim. Even the word seemed to taste bitter in his mouth and he had to swallow down a mouthful of bile at the thought of John seeing him as some fragile creature.

They sat for a few minutes in silence. More of the candles had blown out so now the room was bathed in a mixture of shadows and barely burning flames. The air was cold and without his coat Sherlock was starting to shiver.

"It doesn't matter anyway," He said at last, as he rummaged around in his trouser pocket looking for his stash of cigarettes, "Most people's first sexual experiences tend to be a disappointment." With still shaking fingers he tore open the packet and placed a cigarette to his lips. Just as he was about to light it he saw John move and before he had time to turn his head, the cigarette was ripped from his lips.

He looked up and saw John standing over him, his face awash with such an intense multitude of emotions it actually made Sherlock wince to look at him. He appeared angry but also animated by some deep-rooted, unreadable emotion. Before he was able to say anything John suddenly got down onto his knees, bracing his legs on either side of Sherlock's hips. He remained still for a moment, just staring at him, his eyes growing soft as he reached out and cupped the right side of Sherlock's jaw. His touch was gentle, reverent even, as he brushed the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip.

Their sudden close proximity, mixed with John's warmth and weight pressing against him and the feeling of his skin against his, was making Sherlock feel slightly dizzy.

"John, what are you_?" But before he could ask, John's fingers were in his hair, tugging his head back and his mouth was on his.


	23. The Road Not Taken

Sherlock's brain was stuttering. Words couldn't take shape. Ideas couldn't form coherent threads. He was falling, sinking, being completely swallowed up by this moment; by the soft slide of lips against lips and the taste of tongue. His world was currently compounded into the non-existent space where his mouth ended and where John's began.

Hands were in his hair, tugging his head back, angling it to better suit this maddeningly slow meeting of mouths. He wanted more, needed it, craved further contact and yet this was already more than he could bear. This was too close, too intimate and too raw. He felt exposed, almost like someone had slit open his brain and let all of his thoughts spill out onto the floor. There was no hiding from the truth while he could feel John's mouth moving against his. No merciful pile of logic he could bury his emotions under while he impatiently took in shuddering lungfuls of air; resentful of the fact that in order to breathe he had to briefly break their contact.

He should stop this, prevent it from going any further but he didn't want to. His logic and pragmatism had been impaired by the overwhelming desire to taste, touch and claim all of John that he could. Though he couldn't touch him because that would be as good as giving in and admitting what he wanted. And this is what he wanted. He'd wanted this for so long, ever since that first case when he'd looked up through the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance and seen John standing behind the police tape. He'd wanted this from the moment he realised that this man, who'd known him for less than a day. Who'd just returned from war; from seeing blood and carnage and bodies torn apart by bullets and bombs, had killed to save his life.

That was the catalytic moment that had cracked the well composed equilibrium of his brain. As prior to that moment Sherlock had spent his entire life feeling like he was looking in at the world through a pane of concave glass. He had stood alone, staring at the people that entered his life in a detached state of bemusement. No one saw the world the way he did. No one had ever understood that every unsolved puzzle to him was as painful as an ember burning its way through his brain; that he would swallow every pill and chase every shadow in order to find out the answer.

But John had understood; he'd worked it out after knowing him for less than a day and for the first time in his life Sherlock hadn't felt like he was standing alone. He'd felt connected, tethered to the world by another human being. And that feeling, that feeling of being seen after being invisible for so long, had surged through him sending his heart beating faster and his body trembling. He had known in that moment that he was now on the verge of having something that he simultaneously wanted and was afraid of losing. So he had created rules to protect himself, to prevent John from getting too close:

No spending more than three days out of seven eating dinner and/or an equivalently lengthy meal together in a given week.

No sharing personal items, clothing or towels.

No establishing routines.

No talking about personal things that do not pertain to either cases or the general upkeep of the flat.

No exchanging gifts for either birthdays, Christmas or any other ridiculous social conventions/religious/spiritual holidays.

No touching.

But then John had started cooking dinner for both of them every night and using his toothpaste and shower gel when his had run out. And as John did all the laundry Sherlock had lost track of which socks and underwear belonged to him. And then John brought him a present for his birthday and another one for Christmas and a chocolate egg for Easter – even though Sherlock had spent an hour, lecturing him about the ridiculousness of celebrating a holiday that combines the resurrection of Jesus Christ, sweets and a magical rabbit. Over the course of only one year John had successfully broken every one of Sherlock's rules... apart from the last one.

Touching. Why had he even put that down on his mental list of rules? Why did he need reminding not to touch John? Why would he want to touch him and what did he even mean by touching? Was it simply expressing friendly affection like hugging or shaking hands? Or had he subconsciously been warning himself against doing something else? Something darker, something sensual, something that friends were never supposed to do to each other?

That's when the dreams had started, the ones that woke him up in the early hours of the morning with an aching cock and a mind full of filthy images. Images of him on his knees with John's hands in his hair, his hips thrusting back and forth as John fucked his mouth roughly, savouring the taste and feel of him on his tongue.

He'd ignored these thoughts and tried to chase them away from his dreams by reducing the amount of time he spent asleep. He could get by on about five hours a night and, as long as he shoved his face into a pillow to muffle his moans, he could fuck himself whenever the urge got too strong. Sherlock could control himself; he could put aside his base desires in order to preserve their friendship. Why couldn't John do the same? Exert the same level of self-discipline and control_?

"Don't." John said as he finally broke off their kiss and began trailing his lips down the side of Sherlock's jaw.

"Don't... what?"

"Ruin this by speaking."

"But I_" the words died in Sherlock's throat as he felt John's teeth gently biting the sensitive skin of his neck, "John we need... um... we need to talk."

"We've been talking all night." John said as his hands slid down Sherlock's chest and started tugging at his shirt, pulling it free from the waistband of his trousers.

"John_ ah, shit." He was touching him now, trailing his fingers across the hot skin of Sherlock's stomach, unbuttoning his shirt so that his hands could touch more of him.

"This is irrational John." Sherlock said as he desperately tried not to feel, tried not to want.

"What? You trekking us across miles of marsh land so that we can play a drinking game in a windmill? Yes, I agree." He said as he unfastened the last button on Sherlock's shirt and allowed the lapels to fall open, "We should have stayed in the hotel room where there's heating and electricity and a bed." Suddenly John's hands stilled on Sherlock's chest, almost as if he had forgotten to do something vitally important.

Sherlock watched as John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before he finally looked up and stared at him with such fierce intensity that Sherlock actually felt himself starting to blush.

"Do you want this?"

Sherlock felt a cold jolt of adrenaline shoot down the length of his spine, "What do you mean by that?"

"Do you want us to be more than friends?"

"We_"

"I'm not asking whether you think that it will work or not, I'm simply asking if you want to try. Do you want this? Do you want me?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment as he frantically searched his brain, trying to work out how to sidestep the question and turn it into one that was less... raw. He'd managed to do it thus far. John had been so caught up in his own emotions to actually ask him how he felt about all this. He'd never directly asked him what he wanted. He'd never been forced to say it out loud, to admit to it.

He felt himself tremble as he continued to stare at John. He was waiting, looking expectant, needing an answer. If he admitted to this then there was no going back; no way to hide the truth, to protect himself against the inevitable fall. And he would fall. They wouldn't last, it wouldn't work and when John finally left it would break his heart, rip him apart, destroy him and the fear of that pain made him tremble again.

John was looking at Sherlock so openly and honestly. He looked so ready to try and be something more than they ever could be...

"I can't do this." Sherlock said as he finally pushed John off his lap and scrambled away from him, kicking a few candles across the room in his haste to get away.

"Sherlock_"

"What is it that you can't understand John?! You know me, you know what I'm like: I don't do things like this." Sherlock said, gesturing violently between the two of them, "I told you that this would destroy me, did you think that I was just being over dramatic? I don't know how to do this John, I don't know how to do love and affection and relationships. Caring is not an advantage it is a flaw, a misjudgement, a human error. It's exploitative and damning and ruinous and I don't know how to do it, I don't know how to be what you want me to be!"

John buried his head in his hands and groaned deeply, "For the love of God Sherlock, for someone who is so smart you can be incredibly fucking stupid." He scrubbed his hands across his face in exasperation before he looked up at him and said, "I know why you brought me here tonight."

Sherlock felt slightly whiplashed by the change of direction that their conversation had suddenly taken, "I... this is a date_"

"No it isn't. A date would have involved us going to dinner, having an argument and then returning to Baker Street where I could have fucked you senseless on all of the surfaces I could comfortably bend you over. This, on the other hand, is your way of trying to show me how different we are."

It was rather irrational that, even emotionally compromised and half naked, Sherlock was still a little bit miffed that John had seen through his carefully constructed plan. "I was simply trying to show you that your attraction to me is illogical and based on_"

"Sherlock I am perfectly aware of how different we are. I've lived with you for three years, I've fished fucking toes out of yoghurt pots and made you pee in cups to test your urine for cocaine. Our differences are pretty obvious_"

"Then why do you keep insisting on pushing this?!" Sherlock shouted and even to his own ears he could hear the frantic panic in his voice. He felt like he was being backed off a cliff, trying desperately to dig his feet into the ground to prevent himself from being flung off the edge. "If you already know that we're incompatible then why do you keep trying to turn us into something that we can't be?"

John stared at him in complete bemusement, "I never said that we were incompatible Sherlock, I said we were different."

"That's the same thing."

"No it isn't," John said, finally getting to his feet – with some effort as the time spent straddling Sherlock had obviously stiffened his knees. "Can you imagine what it would be like if we were the same? If I was the same as you, if there were two Sherlocks living in the same flat?" He actually seemed to shudder at the thought, "The fire department would be run off their feet trying to put out all of our kitchen fires and explosions, Mycroft would be comfort eating himself into a coma and Lestrade would simply give up the will to live. We'd end up dead after a month of either malnutrition or a drug over dose."

Sherlock opened his mouth to try and refute John's comment but he instantly realised that he was right about this one.

"And if you were the same as me..." John continued, his voice faltering slightly, "Well then we'd still be walking with a limp, suffering from post-traumatic stress and living off a government pension."

He took a deep breath and for a horrible moment Sherlock thought that John was about to start crying because the skin around his eyes was starting to look a little red,

"Sherlock you have no idea how bleak my life was before I met you. You have no idea just how happy your friendship makes me because without you... without the life that we've built together back at Baker Street... I'd have nothing."

He stared at him, his eyes wide, and in complete sincerity said, "I owe you, I owe you so much, I owe you everything and no matter what happens between us I will never leave you because you are my friend, my best friend. And there'll be times when I'll walk away, because there are moments when you irritate the shit out of me, but I promise you that I will always come back. I promise, because without you... before you I was so alone and I can never go back to that. I can't go back to a time when I don't know what it's like to have you in my life."

John took a few steps forward but not enough to close the gap between them, "I want you in every possible way that I can have you and if you give this a chance... if you give us a chance then I can guarantee that it will be worth it because we work Sherlock. We fit, we are a match even though there are so few similarities that we share. We are different but we are the same in so many ways and all I want is for you to give us a chance."

He moved closer, side stepping half dying candles and piles of melted wax until he was standing a meter away from Sherlock, "I don't want you to change, I know what sort of man you are and you're what I want. Not some simple, sweet, age appropriate woman who will look after me and feed me soup when I can no longer chew solids. I don't want a conventional life, I want one with you and I know that means chasing serial killers through fields and defusing bombs and almost dying every other week but that is what I want. I want this, I want you and all I need to know is if you want me too. Do you want me?"

Sherlock stood paralysed, his mouth hanging open slightly, his brain completely blank. It was ineffable, this feeling that was currently coursing through his veins. He felt like his chest was about to explode, almost as if someone had taken a bicycle pump to his lungs and inflated them until they were on the brink of bursting. He was shaking, trembling, feeling like he was about to shatter all over the floor. He couldn't think, he could barely breathe, but before he was aware of what he was doing, air whooshed out of his lungs and formed the word,

"Yes." He closed his eyes and savoured that word, "Yes I want you."

"Thank fuck for that." John said as he reached out, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock's shirt and using them to drag him closer. Then fingers were in his hair and John's mouth was covering his and it was glorious. Rough and fierce with a combination of hot tongue and sharp teeth. He could taste John's breath, taste his mouth and tongue and lips. Hands were everywhere, oscillating between tugging at his hair and trailing down his chest.

"Are we really doing this?" John asked against his lips as he grabbed hold of his hips and began gently thrusting his erection against Sherlock's.

"Ah... shit John that feels..."

"Are we doing this Sherlock, are we really going to try and be together? Tell me."

He could feel John's laboured breath falling against his throat and his hands working on the fly of his trousers and it was too much, he couldn't think, "Did you mean what you said before?" He managed to ask after several long moments had passed.

"Yes." John said against his mouth before kissing him again, "Every word, I promise, I promise I won't hurt you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was afraid and hesitant and sceptical but maybe, just maybe there was a chance that he could be wrong about this. If John had meant the things that he'd said then maybe they could work, maybe they could last. Maybe it would all be worth taking a chance...

"Okay," he said at last, his voice trembling slightly, "Yes, we'll try."

The second he said it Sherlock felt John sag against him, his forehead pressing against the crook of his neck as he said, "Oh thank God," over and over again in between peppering Sherlock's throat with kisses and licks and sharp, stinging bites. His mouth travelled across the expanse of his neck before stopping by his ear where he whispered, "I need to fuck you now."

Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back until it hit the wall behind him with a dull thud. He'd never thought that he'd want to try that again, not after that incident with his old professor, but the idea of getting down on his hands and knees and feeling John's cock thrusting in and out of his arse made him grow incredibly hard.

"God yes, do that, please." He said, hating how needy his voice sounded.

"I will but first I think I'll finish what I started last night." And before Sherlock could process what was happening, John had dropped down onto his knees and had started placing open mouthed kisses over his trouser glad erection.

"Oh John that's... fuck!" His knees were beginning to shake and he was worried that they might give out from under him. Tentatively Sherlock reached out his hand and threaded it through John's hair, marvelling at the warmth beneath his palm and the fact that he was touching him, he was allowed to touch him like this. John looked up at him and maintained unwavering eye contact as he started pulling the waistband of his trousers over his hips.

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. This was really happening, the truth was being laid bare and raw and he couldn't escape it, couldn't deny this feeling or pretend that he didn't know what it was anymore. He knew what this was, he knew how he felt, he just had to open his mouth and say it. John had already done the hard part, he'd said it first, he'd paved the way. Sherlock just had to reciprocate, he needed to say it now before he lost his nerve, before this moment passed and doubt started to leech back into his brain again.

He licked his lips and took a deep breath before saying, "John, I think... I think that I lo_"

Something in his back pocket started making a hideously incongruous noise. John stared at him incredulously,

"Is that... is that a fucking phone?"

"I... yes," Sherlock said as he fumbled frantically to retrieve the offending gadget. A quick scan of the screen showed him that Mycroft was calling him. He ignored the call and stuffed it back in his pocket, resisting the urge to throw the thing across the room – trust Mycroft to pick the worst time to want to catch up with the events of the day.

"How do you even have reception? Aren't we slap bang in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle?"

The phone rang, it was Mycroft again. Sherlock ignored the call for a second time.

"The Bermuda Triangle is situated in the western part of the North Atlantic Ocean. We're in a windmill in Kent."

John smiled slightly, "I was joking."

"You'll have to forgive me, it's quite difficult to pick up on humour when your mouth is four inches away from my cock."

"That's a very rude word you just used."

"I think you'll find I know quite a few rude words."

John's smile became a smirk, "Care to orate a few for me_?"

The phone rang a third time and John groaned, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's stomach, "Just answer it and tell Mycroft to fuck off." He said, "In fact, better yet, give me the phone and I'll do it for you."

Sherlock handed John the phone and watched as he connected the call before pressing it to his ear, "Look Mycroft, this is the worst possible time for you to be phoning. We're sort of in the middle of something at the moment but I can assure you that Sherlock is fine, so am I and Moriarty is_"

John's face grew suddenly very flushed and then began to slowly drain of colour. He looked up at him and Sherlock could see cold fear flitting through his irises. Without a word spoken between them John held the phone out to him and Sherlock took it. He placed it to his ear and quietly called out his brother's name,

"Mycroft?"

There was a brief moment of silence before the voice of Jim Moriarty came clanging down the line, "Hello honey, did you miss me?"


	24. Casting the Die

Since the age of seven, Irene Adler had only been able to experience a goodnight's sleep with a hunting knife tucked beneath her pillow. She always made sure that she sheathed it of course – for no one wanted to turn over in their sleep and end up with a sharp blade embedded in their brain. Some of her former lovers had found it strange but it gave her a sense of security. It was a comfort to know that if she was ambushed in the middle of the night she would at least have a fighting chance of killing the ambusher before they could kill her. She had contemplated swapping the knife for a gun but, even with the safety on, guns could be incredibly unpredictable.

After John and Sherlock had disappeared off on their date – which she assumed would take on the form of an eight hour argument rather than a romantic evening – she had gone in search of a hunting knife. Unfortunately her search had been fruitless and, aside from purchasing several sticks of rock and a wind chime made out of shells, she had returned to the hotel empty handed. Not wanting to spend another night drifting in and out of a restless sleep, she had settled on stealing one of the steak knives from the hotel kitchen and wrapping the blade in several layers of Clingfilm. It wasn't a perfect substitute - it had a serrated edge which could be problematic, especially when she was trying to cut open a man's femoral artery in one easy slash - but it would have to do.

Returning to the hotel room had been a particularly bleak experience. Cold light filtered in through the bare window illuminating the IV needles, the used iodine swabs and the tattered remnants of Sherlock's shirt, all of which were scattered across the floor. Patches of pre-ejaculate and rusty coloured blood – presumably both belonging to Sherlock – stained the greying bed sheets and both the pillows were slightly moist from where all three of them had slept with wet hair the previous two nights.

Too tired to do much, Irene quickly packed all the medical equipment back into the bag, stripped the sheets – replacing them with relatively fresh ones from the bathroom cupboard – and climbed into bed. She lay in the dark, rubbing the flat edges of her palms against her eyes. The pillows were so thin that she could faintly feel the outline of the knife pressing into the back of her skull. It comforted her and soon her mind began to drift.

As she teetered between the realms of consciousness, her thoughts briefly alighted on Sherlock and John. She was mildly alarmed that they had yet to return from their "date". She hoped that they weren't attempting to fuck each other in a poorly insulated windmill. It would make for a good story but she doubted that the sub-zero temperatures of early December would be conducive to a fulfilling night of unbridled passion. She smiled widely at the thought of them stumbling around each other, fully aroused, painfully hard and only now realising the difficulties of having anal sex in a windmill without a bottle of lube and a selection of prophylactics. She presumed that after all of this was over they would lock themselves in 221B with a bottle of Astroglide and finally fuck each other on every available surface.

She groaned and buried her face into her pillow. It'd been such a long time since she had had a fulfilling sexual experience with someone other than herself. She envied John and Sherlock, not only because of the impending orgasmic fuck-fest that they were about to embark on together, but because they had an end point to all of this. After they had dealt with Moriarty – which hopefully involved putting a bullet between his eyes and burying him in a shallow grave – they could go back to Baker Street and resume their comfortable, well worn, weekly routine of investigating crimes, arguing and, now, fucking each other senseless. However her situation wasn't quite so simple.

She was alone. She had no confidant or companion; she had neither a place of refuge to return to nor any place that she called 'home'. She had so many enemies and so few friends. She was presumed deceased in four countries and was currently wanted dead by a handful of secret government agencies and terrorist organisations. It was impossible for her to take root in any place too long. Even when all of this was over for John and Sherlock, she had to go back on the run. They were about to start a new part of their lives and she was simply going to continue living the one she always had. The life that prevented her from sleeping well without a hunting knife tucked beneath her pillow. The life that had taught her to only choose jewellery that could double up as an explosive device. The life that had convinced her that everything in the world represented a power play and that the only aim was to not find yourself on the bottom. And at the end of this life what would she have amassed apart from a handful of secrets and numerous scars? What would she be known for in the minds of those who knew her? Loved by none, hated by many, remembered only, in the solitary mind of Sherlock Holmes, as 'The Woman'.

She sighed and pulled the covers over her head. Now was not the time to have some sort of existential crisis. She was exhausted and she knew that in the days to come she would need every ounce of energy in order to help John and Sherlock restore the equilibrium of their own lives. If she couldn't live for herself then perhaps, if only for now, she could live for Sherlock and help him start the life with John that he had rallied so long against.

This thought appeased her slightly and before she realised what was happening, the world around her began to fall still and quiet. She drifted into an almost comatose level of unconsciousness and would have slept straight through till morning if Sherlock and John hadn't crashed their way into the room at four AM, arguing at the top of their lungs.

"I don't know why you're blaming me. I told you to watch out for the area of colloidal suspension three feet from your right. It's not my fault that you chose not to listen to me."

"I didn't choose not to listen. I simply didn't know what you meant."

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to treat you like you're stupid? Wouldn't you accuse me of being patronising then? What should I have said instead?"

"Um, for starters, "Look out for that large fucking puddle!"."

"I said colloidal suspension."

"Not the same thing_"

"I think you'll find, John, that it most definitely is."

Irene, who had initially been startled by the violent way in which her deep cycle of REM sleep had been ripped away from her, lay listening to their argument with battling levels of irritation and amusement.

"I know that you're stressed at the moment, but there's no need for you to be such a wanker."

"That seems to be such a rapid turnaround from your former declaration of love. How did I go from the love of your life to a 'wanker' in the space of less than three hours?"

"Oh fuck you."

"I think you'll find that you've already tried to do that – twice – and have failed – twice."

"Dear Lord boys," Irene mumbled into her pillow, "Let's try and keep the waves of bitchiness to a minimum, at least until the sun has risen." Reluctantly she sat herself up in bed. She thought that, as amusing as their argument was turning out to be, if she didn't intervene soon they would come to blows. Slowly she opened her eyes, fighting against the protesting ache of her head, and squinted through the semi-darkness at the figures of her two favourite men.

"I take it your evening didn't go quite to plan?" She asked, her gaze travelling over John who, aside from being flushed red with anger, was sodden from his hips down to his shoes in foul smelling, dirty water. There were smudges of mud across his brow and almost an entire forest of dead leaves clinging to his jacket. Sherlock hadn't fared much better: his hair looked as if feral animals had just clawed their way out of his skull, his coat was filthy and several buttons were missing on his shirt. Although his eyes were wild with rage, his face was deathly pale and Irene could see, even in the dark, that he was trembling.

"What happened to you?" Irene asked, firstly directing her question at John.

His jaw set tightly as he glared at Sherlock, "I was trying to keep up with him as he strode across miles of marsh land and I ended up falling waist deep into a giant puddle."

"It's not my fault that you can't look where you're going or that you have abnormally short legs." Sherlock snapped.

Irene watched as John closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds before he said, as calmly as he could, "I know that you're frightened_"

"I_"

"And because you're frightened you keep lashing out at me in an attempt to push me away. I know you, I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. We are going to deal with this together so stop acting like a glorified prick and let me help you."

Irene could tell that, although Sherlock was trying to look impassive, whatever combination of fear and pain he was currently feeling was preventing him from concealing his emotions completely. He looked raw, almost like someone had cut him apart and let all his insides fall out. He stared at John for a long time before he said,

"Fine. I accept you premise. Perhaps I have been a little... harsh. I also appreciate that you want to help but first I need to talk to Irene alone. Take the..." Sherlock corrected himself, "Please take the medical bag downstairs and warm up the car. We'll join you in twenty-six minutes."

A look passed between them and despite John's obvious reluctance to leave, he bent down and picked up the medical bag. Irene watched as Sherlock's eyes followed John's movements, he was tracing the curve of his back, the length of his legs and the features of his face almost like it was the last time that he would see him. It was like he was trying to soak up the physical memory of John, to burn the image of him into his brain in order to give himself something to remember after he had gone.

John straightened up and looked between the two of them, "I'll see you downstairs in a minute then." He said and with that he turned and walked out of the open door. Sherlock stared after him. His gaze was not one of residual irritation or anger, but rather one that expressed a level of hollow, echoing desperation and loss.

They were silent for a minute before Irene cleared her throat,

"So how was your date? I'm presuming, going by that rather tense interaction that I just witnessed, that the both of you are just about ready to get engaged?"

Sherlock finally turned his face towards her, "We have to go back to London. Now. Moriarty rang us about three hours ago when we were... in the windmill."

"And what exactly were you about to do to each other in the windmill? I'm assuming that it involved something to do with light suction and a source of wet warmth."

He glared at her, "Now is not the time for us to discuss anything pertaining to... anything other than Moriarty."

"I'm not in the mood to talk about psychopaths. I am, however, in the mood to talk about the presence of John's mouth on your_"

"Irene!"

She sighed, "Fine, what did he want? I'm guessing that he didn't call to ask for your Christmas list."

Sherlock's jaw set tightly and after a few minutes of prolonged silence, it seemed as if he was incapable of speaking, "He..." Sherlock cleared his throat to stop his voice from sounding so hoarse, "He has Mycroft."

"What?" Irene asked incredulously as she scrambled across the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. Sherlock flinched away from the light and backed himself towards the safety of the shadowy corners of the room. "How on Earth did he manage to lure Mycroft away from the collective protection of the entire British government?"

"He used the footage that he took the night he tried to get me to kill you and John. He sent the clip to us so we could see it as well. Although the lens gets obscured after the smoke bombs go off, you can hear the moment that I get shot. You can also hear me in pain. Some point after I passed out Moriarty picked up the recorder and filmed me lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He sent Mycroft the footage and told him that he had me in the abandoned building opposite Bart's and that if he didn't come alone to collect me then he would let me bleed to death."

"And Mycroft believed him?"

"Evidently," Sherlock said quietly as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him, "I always believed that my brother valued pragmatism over sentiment. I was wrong. And now Moriarty has turned the proverbial tables and is using Mycroft as leverage to obtain me."

"How do you know that he even has him?"

Sherlock's eyes focussed on hers, "He sent us more footage. This time it was of Mycroft handcuffed to one of the radiators. He had a minor head wound but other than that he appeared to be fine."

"Did you get to talk to him?"

"Yes." Sherlock said tightly, "Unlike me he is unaccustomed to being taken hostage so he seemed somewhat vexed by the experience. He told me that none of this would have happened if I habitually gave him text updates, telling him where I was and what I was doing. I told him that the fault lay at his own, abnormally bloated, feet for spending more time stuffing his face with cake rather than learning how to defend himself against the world's ever growing population of would-be attackers. He told me not to come for him and I told him that he would see me soon." Sherlock cleared his throat, "Needless to say, we need to head back to London immediately. I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany us."

Irene was a little taken aback that Sherlock had even entertained the notion that she wouldn't be coming with them; after all, they had come this far together, why would he assume that she wouldn't want to continue on their journey until it had been drawn to a tidy conclusion?

"Does it look like I'm in a rush to leave you?" She asked. Sherlock stared at her for a few moments before he nodded back in thanks. He didn't appear appeased however and she quickly realised that there was something bothering him that went beyond his fear for his brother's life.

"Why exactly did you wait for John to leave before telling me all of this? I presume he knows what's going on?"

Sherlock sighed deeply and ran a muddy hand through his hair. In the dim light coming from the bedside lamp he looked absolutely exhausted, "John knows what's going on but he doesn't know how I plan to resolve the issue."

Irene waited but when he didn't elaborate she asked, "What exactly are you planning on doing?"

She heard him sigh again before he finally looked up at her and said gravely, "I need you to help me carry out Scenario 8."

Irene was rendered momentarily speechless. She simply sat staring at him blankly as she quickly ran through all their pre-prepared scenarios in her mind, double checking just in case she was mistaken as to exactly what Scenario 8 entailed. Several seconds passed before she said,

"Sherlock you can't be serious."

"Does it look like I'm currently in the mood for levity?"

"Then have you recently experienced a nasty knock to your head?" She asked as she threw the covers off herself and got out of bed, "Scenario 8 was only supposed to be carried out in hypothetical situations."

"Yes, well, now necessity has liberated it from the confines of a hypothetical world and placed it firmly in a practical_"

"This is not a valid option."

"It's the only option_"

"You can't honestly think that. There must be another way_"

"Do you honestly think that I came to this conclusion lightly?" Sherlock snapped, his semi-shell-shocked state giving way to a sudden wave of incandescent energy, "Do you think that I simply plucked it out of my head at random? The second Moriarty put the phone down I came up with a hundred and eleven possible solutions to this problem but then, after spending three hours trekking through a field, I found that I had eliminated all but one. This is not what I want to do, believe me when I say that, but what other option do I have?" He asked as he began pacing, wincing slightly as the movement caused the wound on his thigh to rub against his trousers, "He won't stop until he has ruined my life and made me suffer by hurting every person who I hold most dear. He started with you, then moved on to John and now he has my brother."

"You're forgetting that both John and I are still alive_"

"What does that matter!?" He shouted and Irene could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, "Do you think that it'll be a once in a lifetime thing? That just because he tried to kill you once means that he won't try and do it again? If we save Mycroft then Moriarty will just move on to someone else, perhaps Mrs Hudson or maybe he'll just double back and snatch John in the hope that he'll be lucky the second time around. This doesn't end Irene, not until I'm dead, not until he's seen me die in some horrific way. The only way that I can protect John is by creating the illusion that I've given Moriarty what he wants."

"But you can't_" She stopped mid admonishment as her mind finally clicked, "Wait, you're not going to tell John about what you're going to do?"

Sherlock's face took on a look of utter disgust, "Please don't make trite observations Irene, it depresses me and insults you."

"How can you not tell John!?" She said between clenched teeth, ignoring his attempt at provocation.

"It's simple, I just don't open my mouth and explain Scenario 8 to him."

"Don't be facetious_"

"Well then don't be intentionally stupid. I can't tell him because he's a terrible liar and an even worse actor. If I tell him what's going to happen then his reaction won't be believable and the entire facade will fall apart."

Irene watched as he racked his fingers violently through his hair. Bathed in shadows he looked like he was fading into the background, like he was disintegrating before her eyes.

"It will destroy him." She said quietly.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked up at her, "I'm trying to protect him."

"He'll never forgive you, not after this, not after you put him through what you intend to. You'll never be able to heal the wound that you're about to inflict."

Sherlock's face seemed to grow paler and the skin around his eyes started to look alarmingly red, "I know." He said and his voice sounded so small and weak that it almost broke her heart to hear it, "I know and it's not a thought that I relish but, as the situation stands, I can't base my decision on what I can or cannot bare to live with." He turned towards the door, almost as if he planned to leave, but then abruptly turned back and stared at her.

"I didn't even get a chance to try." He said, gesturing in the direction of the open door, "Therein lies the hellish nature of coincidental circumstances. After spending my entire life feeling alone I finally found someone who... tethers me, who sees me, who... wants me." He shuddered slightly at this admission, almost as if it was too painful a thought for him to even entertain,

"After all the years of denying myself the thing that I want the most I finally allow myself to take a chance and let him in. I agreed to try, to throw caution to the wind and open myself up for the possibility of being ruined by another person. I am the epitome of rationality, I have lived my entire life being governed by what I know to be true opposed to what I think I feel and yet I was willing to become irrational for him. I was willing to try and now I don't... I don't even get a chance to see what it would have been like to have... him."

He shuddered again and wiped furiously at his eyes. He turned his back on her and took a few seconds to collect himself before he turned back and said,

"So I know what I'm asking of you because I know what I'm asking of myself. There isn't another way and, as much as I loath to admit it, I need your help. I've saved your life twice Irene, I just need you to return the favour."

Irene swallowed, "But you're not asking me to save your life Sherlock, you're asking me to help you end it."

He tried to smile but it looked more like a pained wince, "Only theoretically."

She sighed deeply and buried her head in her hands. She could feel the beginnings of an adrenaline rush starting to seep into her veins. Her brain was waking up, starting to run through the lists of things that they needed to do and sort out in order for this to work. What he was asking her to do wasn't so much the problem as what he needed her not to do. She couldn't tell John. She would have to fain ignorance, all the while knowing that Sherlock was about to shatter himself and, in doing so, was going to destroy both John and the relationship that they had.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked, finally looking up at him.

He stared back, his face ashen, his eyes half dead with resignation and the premature grief of all that was to come.

"Yes." He said and although he was obviously agonised over the situation there was an unwavering tone of determination and certainty in his voice.

She nodded, "Okay then." And so the dye had been cast.


	25. Permeability

Nothing in life disturbed John Watson as much as the sight of Sherlock trying to appear calm when, in reality, his brain was actually screaming. Thoughts were firing across synapses, connections were being made like pieces of a puzzle being violently slotted together, plans were being formed only to be instantly torn down and started afresh all while Sherlock was pretending to be unperturbed. He was sitting next to John in the back seat of the car, his hands clasped on his knees, pale fingers intertwined, face impassive and turned towards the window.

He was willing his body to shut down, John could tell, he'd seen him do this a few times before. His breathing had grown slow and even – almost mimicking the sound of a medical ventilator. His eyes were closed but every few minutes or so John would watch them open and stare blankly at the ceiling. John was sure that if he reached out his hand and pressed his fingers to one of the pulse points on Sherlock's throat, he would feel a steady, gentle heartbeat pulsing back.

It was unnerving, frightening almost, to see Sherlock trying to shed his human skin and become a cold, calculating machine. To be honest, John preferred him when he was acting like he was strung out on cocaine. He preferred it when he fired bullets into the wall or blew up the kitchen or sprinted down dark streets at night like a race dog chasing a toy rabbit. No matter how often he chastised him for it, John enjoyed the acerbic slice of Sherlock's tongue and his downright abrasive rudeness.

He hated Sherlock's silences. It meant that he was trying to hide something, something dangerous, something he knew that John would disapprove of. He couldn't reach him when he was like this, not when he'd effectively shut himself off from the world and locked himself inside his mind palace.

Talk to me. That's all John wanted, to be let in, to know what was going on. He wanted Sherlock to look at him, he wanted to see his irises burning bright with a combination of exhilaration and anticipation. He wanted to hear him say that treasured phrase of his – the one he had coined years ago in the rooms of 221B. The game is on, John. That's what he wanted to hear. He wanted to know that they were in this together because right now, even though they were sitting a few inches apart in the backseat of the car, John couldn't help but feel like Sherlock was separated from him by an impermeable barrier of transparent glass.

He had a sudden, overwhelming, and rather childish desire to reach out and take hold of one of Sherlock's hand, just to get his attention, just to feel connected to him. He could do that now couldn't he? After all, Sherlock had agreed to give them a chance so... technically... didn't that make John his boyfriend? The thought was so dizzying, so uttered incongruous and yet uncharacteristically perfect.

John looked over – for what must have been the thousandth time since they had started their car journey – and stared at the side of Sherlock's face. He took in the sinewy expanse of pale throat, the hard edge of his jaw, the chaotic locks of his hair which, presently, where clogged with dried mud and the occasional decaying leaf. It was ridiculous really for John to feel so giddy, so positively fucking gleeful at the knowledge that the furiously intelligent, questionably insane – partially sociopathic – mind bogglingly brilliant man sitting next to him was now, technically, his... boyfriend.

He wanted to slap himself. He was a thirty-six year old, retired army doctor with a bad knee, a dodgy shoulder and an intermittent tremor in his right hand, not a love struck school girl. And Sherlock Holmes was... as he had always been: bright, brilliant and, sometimes, a complete and utter shit. There was no reason for him to feel so bloody happy but he did. He was practically ecstatic, even in the face of all their impending problems. Mycroft was in the murderous hands of Moriarty, Irene Adler was back from the dead and now, seemingly, weaving herself back into the very fabric of their lives, Sherlock still had two very serious gunshot wounds that needed to be properly examined and – due to being recently kidnapped and held hostage for the past week in an abandoned windmill – John had yet to do any of his Christmas shopping. For all intents and purposes they were royally screwed and yet... John couldn't help but feel sickeningly overjoyed at the fact that, when all this was over, he would be going home with Sherlock and he would finally get a chance to appease that painful ache that had been growing inside him for months.

Sherlock Holmes was now his and he could do with him, within reason, whatever he so wished. He could touch him, feel him, taste him. There was no reason why he shouldn't be able to do something as simple, as innocent, as hold his hand now. John gave in. He cast his hesitation aside, reached out his hand and brushed his fingers against the skin of Sherlock's outer wrist. The touch obviously came as a surprise because Sherlock jolted and snapped his head around to stare at the place where John's fingers were resting. He looked at them for a second and then looked up at John, his expression was one of utter bemusement.

John lost his nerve – there was no way that he was going to attempt something as intimate, and childish, as holding his hand while Sherlock was staring at him like he'd just admitted to being some sort of reptilian/human half breed. He withdrew his hand, cleared his throat and said,

"So, what exactly is the plan?"

Sherlock turned his face away from John and briefly met the gaze of Irene in the rear-view mirror. She hadn't said a word since they had started driving. Every time that John had looked up he had seen that her eyes were either fixed on the road ahead or scanning the screen of Sherlock's phone. She had to know what was going on, they'd obviously conspired together and the fact that Sherlock had chosen her to be his confidant made the base of John's lungs burn hot with jealousy.

John watched now as their eyes met in the mirror, a look passed between them, one which caused Irene to sigh and Sherlock to flinch.

"Oh Jesus," John said as he felt the slick cold strike of adrenaline flood down the length of his spine, "What on Earth are you planning?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and remained silent for a few long moments before he said, "Do you trust me John? Do you trust that, as long as it was in my power to prevent it, I would never let harm come to you?"

"I... yes."

"Yes what?" Sherlock snapped in irritation.

"Yes I trust you."

"Well then, trust me when I say that the less you know the better."

"Shit." John said as he buried his head in his hands, "Now I'm really worried. You're the world's biggest show off, if you don't want to tell me something then that must mean that you know that if I knew what you knew then I would absolutely disapprove."

Sherlock's right eye twitched slightly, "That sentence didn't make grammatical sense."

"Fuck my grammar, what are you planning? Trust works both ways Sherlock, if you can't trust me then how do you expect me to blindly trust you?"

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his fingers across his eyes. He looked so tired, so drawn, almost as if every drop of energy had been squeeze from his body.

"I do trust you John_"

"Just not as much as Irene_"

"John_"

"No, Sherlock. There are times where you have the right to withhold information, things that you get not tell me but this isn't one of those occasions! You expect me to walk blindly into battle without a clue as to what I'm supposed to be doing? That's not how warfare works."

Sherlock snorted and finally turned his head to look at John, "Who said that we were at war?"

John felt his jaw inadvertently clench tightly shut, "That man strapped explosives to my chest and attempted to blow me up in a swimming pool. He abducted me, held me hostage and then shot two bullets through your body. He has your brother tied to some rusty radiator in an abandoned building and is using him, like he used me, like he used Irene, to lure you into his territory. We are at war Sherlock, don't act like we're not. This man wants to destroy you and I will not let him do that. So please don't ask me to go over the top and walk through no-man's land unarmed. I've killed for you once and I'm perfectly willing to do it again. I would do anything that you asked of me but I will not stand in the dark and watch you put yourself in danger without knowing how to protect you. So fucking tell me what the plan is."

Sherlock was staring at him, his previous expression of complete impassivity had been replaced by a fierce mix of emotions that John couldn't quite identify. His cheeks, formerly deathly pale, were now flushed slightly red with blood. His breathing had picked up and John could see his chest rising and falling beneath his dirty, tattered shirt. They stared at each other and the silence that ensued seemed to vibrate with a tense, pressurised hum. John hadn't even realised that Irene had stopped the car until she said,

"We're here."

John broke eye contact first in order to look out the window and stare at the familiar streets that lay on the other side of the glass. The dirty white walls of Bart's hospital contrasted jarringly against the dark, inky black sky. The winter weather created a thick, oppressive fog that hung in the air like indecisive snowflakes. It was barely six AM and as a result most of the surrounding street lights were still beaming their jaundice yellow light. If John had seen a more ominous looking day he couldn't remember it.

After staring outside for what felt like an age, John turned back to see that Sherlock had unlocked the side door and was climbing out,

"Sherlock you need to_"

But before he could finish, Sherlock had slammed the door and had started walking briskly away from the car.

"That absolute..." John muttered as he violently ripped himself free of his seatbelt and tore at the handle of his own door, "True and utter..." he stepped outside, bracing himself against the sudden flash of freezing cold air, "Bastard!" He shouted in Sherlock's direction.

Even through the semi-darkness he saw Sherlock flinch. He didn't turn around or stop walking though.

"You bastard!" John shouted again – not for the first time resenting the fact that his legs was infinitely shorter than his complete and utter arsehole of a best friend. Sherlock looked like nothing more than an insubstantial shadow as he disappeared down one of the foggy alleyways. John swore savagely under his breath as he finally gave in and started running to catch up with him. The air felt as thick as solid ice, it made John's lungs ache and his cheeks burn with the cold. He rounded the mouth of the alleyway and stopped abruptly when he realised that Sherlock was standing in the middle waiting for him. The lights from the streetlamps feel directly upon him, causing the features of his face to appear half swallowed up by shadow. The strands of his hair looked far more chaotic, the flush in his cheeks burnt brighter and his blue irises seemed to flash – almost as if they were made out of some sort of metallic substance. His coat fell around his body, billowing around the backs of his knees like a black sea lapping at two protruding rocks. He didn't look human. He appeared to be, instead, some sort of anthropomorphised mythological creature that had just sprung up from between the cobblestones.

"Why are you doing this?" John asked when he'd finally got his breath back, "Why are you treating me like I'm some sort of simpleton, some wilting fucking desert flower who can't handle the truth? I'm not Lestrade, I'm not Mycroft or Molly or Anderson. You can't just dismiss me." John said as he raked his fingers furiously through his hair,

"What could possibly be that bad that you can't tell me about it? What are you afraid that I'll do? Disagree? I usually do disagree with you but that's never stopped me from helping you before. I disagreed with you when you wanted to try and toast that live goldfish but I still helped you extinguish the flames after your little experiment blew up the toaster. I disagreed with you when you said that it was safe to eat yoghurt that was two weeks past its sell-by-date but that didn't stop me from cleaning up your vomit and looking after you when that manky aforementioned Muller Crunch gave you a violent bout of food poisoning! What makes you think that this time would be any different?

"This is always how it is." John said as he extended his arms out to draw Sherlock's attention to the surrounding alleyway and the dark sky that seemed to be threatening snow, "I'm always left stumbling around after you, half pissed off and half in awe. But I don't mind, I'm always here, I never leave. You call, I come and as much as I loathe being cast in the role of your lapdog, that's just the way it is, the way that it's always been ever since that first text that you sent me."

Sherlock was still standing there in the middle of the alley, his gaze and face so infuriatingly impassive that John couldn't stop himself from closing the space between them and grabbing hold of the lapels of his coat. In one quick, rough move John had Sherlock pinned against the brick wall.

"Talk to me! Tell me what it is that you want me to_" But before John could finish he felt hands grabbing his shoulders and suddenly Sherlock was thrusting him backwards, half dragging, half shoving him until his back hit the opposing wall of the alley. He winced as the side of his head thumped against the brick.

"Ow!" John grunted as he reached up to massage the back of his skull, "Is this the plan then? Are we going to slam each other against the alleyway until we both pass out from a concussion? Jesus Sherlock, I think you might have drawn blood_"

Sherlock's mouth crashed down against his. At first it wasn't so much a kiss as it was a physical assault, there was too many teeth and too much pressure, but then Sherlock tilted his head to the side and started to roughly slid his lips against John's. This wasn't like the first time they'd kissed, where John had been so careful to take it slow, to drag it out and make it last as long as possible. This was no gentle suck and slide of lips with the teasing promise of tongue. This was frantic and desperate. He had no room, no space to breathe. Sherlock's body was pressed flush against his front, they were chest to chest and even though they were separated by several layers of cloth and skin, John could still feel the erratic beating of Sherlock's heart.

He was being consumed. The mouth on his, pressing hot and hard, so rough, so savage, so desperate. The tongue sliding against his, thrusting in and out of his mouth in such a gloriously suggestive way that made John's knees weak. Sherlock had ensnared the delicate skin of John's wrists with his fingers and was using his considerable strength to pin them securely to the cold brick wall behind him. He could feel the bony edges of Sherlock's hips pressing against the soft dome of his abdomen, could hear the pained little whimpers and half stifled moans that were inadvertently tumbling out of Sherlock's throat.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John half gasped, half groaned as he gently began thrusting his hips against Sherlock's thigh. He knew that he shouldn't be doing it. They were in a semi-public place, it was freezing cold and they still had to deal with the rather pressing matter of rescuing Mycroft from the hands of a psychopathic criminal mastermind. But all that seemed to pale in significance when compared with the fact that Sherlock had instigated this aggressive, body burning, lust driven, horrifically timed moment of blissfully agonising physical contact. Sherlock was kissing him like he wanted to, like he needed it, like he was desperately trying to suck the air out of John's lungs and steal it for himself.

The very thought made him shudder. He had no idea that Sherlock knew how to kiss like his, the first time he had been so pliant, so timid. How had he learned to do this, to reduce a person to a mere trembling mess just by pressing his mouth to theirs? John had never experienced a kiss as intense as this before, not even in his teenage years where his blood had been laced so thickly with hormones that even the slide of his own clothes against his skin had been enough to make him hard. He'd never wanted to absorb another person, to completely disappear into them like he did right now. But how did you get closer than this? How could you try and take more when this was already enough to destroy?

John had been on the verge of making some rather shameful noises in order to convey his frustration and state of painful arousal when Sherlock abruptly, and all too quickly, broke off from the kiss. John whimpered and inclined his face forward in an attempt to recapture his lips but Sherlock simply pulled his head further away.

"I need you," Sherlock began but his voice faltered, he swallowed and tried again, "I need you to wait outside Bart's."

John knew that Sherlock was speaking but all he could currently focus on was the fact that when he spoke he could faintly feel Sherlock's lips brushing against his.

"Er... what?"

"The plan, John, I'm telling you what I need you to do in order to make the plan work. That's what you wanted wasn't it? For me to tell you the plan?"

It wasn't fair for Sherlock to be saying things now, things that John needed to pay attention to, not when a significant portion of his blood was pooling in an area that wasn't his brain. "Um, yeah alright." He said as he feebly tried, and failed, to stop looking at Sherlock's mouth – his mouth that was still wet from where John's tongue had been_

"John! Pay attention!" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm sorry," John said as tried to scrub his face with his hands but soon realised that Sherlock's fingers were still ensnared around his wrists. He swallowed and tried to express his current predicament as articulately as he could, "I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time hearing words at the moment because all I can think about is the feeling of your tongue in my mouth." That wasn't all he was thinking about but it was a rough estimation, the truth was he was thinking about all the various places he would like to feel Sherlock's tongue... and mouth... and hands... and_

"John," and this time Sherlock released one of his wrists in order to grab hold of his jaw, "Listen to me. I need you to stand outside Bart's, I need you to stand there and wait for me to call you."

John's brain was starting to engage now, "What? Why?"

"Moriarty needs to be able to see that you're not with me."

"Ok." John waited but when Sherlock provided him with no further explanation or instructions he asked, "So you want me to simply stand around and wait for you to call?"

"Yes."

"But... what are you going to be doing? Where will you be? I can do more than just stand around, I can help you_"

"Please," Sherlock said and his voice sounded almost pained, "John please just... just do what I said. Trust me. I need you to stand outside Bart's and wait for me to call, that's all I need."

Being pressed so tightly against him, John could feel that Sherlock was actually trembling.

"Sherlock_"

"Will you stand outside Bart's and wait for me to call you?" His voice shook and despite trying to clear his throat, his voice shook again when he said, "Will you do this for me?"

John stared at him. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to ask him what was wrong, to share the burden, to assure him that it was going to be OK, that he would do anything that he asked. But because this was Sherlock he knew that any inquiry of concern or declaration of affection would, at best, be treated with ridicule and at worst be treated with mild contempt. So instead he settled for simply saying,

"Of course. But I don't have a phone, Moriarty took mine while we were in the windmill."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly appeased by the fact that John now seemed to be cooperating, "Take mine," he said as he removed his hand from John's jaw and reached into his pocket. Although he couldn't see, John felt the second the cold metallic edge of the phone pressed into his palm.

"Do I need to type in a password or something?"

Sherlock's eyes momentarily flashed with blind panic.

"What?" John asked alarmed as he watched Sherlock's cheeks grow slightly red.

"No, there's no password but... just don't looking through it. There are some things on there that I would rather that you didn't see."

John felt the base of his spine buzz. Sherlock Holmes had a secret, an embarrassing one, and now he held the container of that particularly intriguing piece of information in the palm of his hand. He searched his mind, trying to work out what Sherlock would be embarrassed of.

"Don't be so crude," Sherlock chastised with a roll of his eyes, obviously realising what John was thinking, "I've told you before, if I wanted to watch porn I'd just borrow your laptop."

"So what is it then?"

"Telling you would somewhat defeat the point of asking you not to look. I shouldn't have mentioned it, I'm sure that even if you found it you wouldn't know what it was_ oh for goodness sake, must you look so gleeful?"

John couldn't help but smile, "It's not often that I get a moment of feeling like I have some sort of power over you. I know that it's petty, but petty men need petty moments in their lives. It's what makes us feel important."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before he said quietly, "Don't be ridiculous John, you've always owned me." And then, before John could take in the true profundity of that admission, Sherlock staggered away from him.

Cold winter wind assaulted the places on John which had, seconds ago, been warmed by Sherlock's body. His wrists, although no longer held in place, were still pressed against the wall, his mind was hazy from arousal and the intoxicating taste of Sherlock that was still lingering in his mouth.

John blinked a few times, taking in lungfuls of icy air as he tried to process exactly what had just transpired between them. He turned his head and just managed to catch the sight of Sherlock as he turned out of the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the dark, fogging streets of Londo


	26. Dry Drowning

This must be what dry drowning feels like. The erratic beating of the heart, the decompression of the lungs, – lungs that were screaming out for a full breath to fill them – blood running cold with adrenaline and then the sickening feeling of horror that accompanies the realisation that you are about to die. Of course in this case death was only a metaphoric concept. He wouldn't actually die. His limbs wouldn't break, his flesh wouldn't tear and his scalp wouldn't split from the impact of hitting the pavement. He may be about to fall but he'd never reach the ground, Irene would make sure of that.

And yet he couldn't stop trembling. It was ridiculous, illogical, he knew this. His hands couldn't grip the banister as he climbed the stairs, they were shaking too violently and sweating_ when had his palms learned how to secrete sweat? It was nothing, a mere biological betrayal of stress and he was stressed, he was allowed to be, he was about to jump off a building, anyone would find that prospect stressful. The trembling could also be explained by simple biology: increased heart rate led to a depletion of oxygen saturation in cells, which resulted in the build-up of lactic acid in the muscles which, consequentially, caused the body to shake, to tremble.

But then earth trembled too just before it was about to be ripped apart, to be torn from the ground that it had grown to become a part of. The world had once been a single landmass before the shifting of tectonic plates had caused the earth to break apart and form separate continents that would never again migrate together.

The air around him seemed to grow incredibly thin and suddenly Sherlock found that he couldn't breathe. He pressed his back against the wall and sunk down onto the floor. He was in the stairwell of Bart's hospital, three flights away from reaching the roof, and he was having a panic attack. He cupped his hands around his mouth and tried to breathe in the carbon dioxide that was accumulating between his palms.

He didn't have time for this, not now, not when their plan relied on timing and precision and the ability to lie convincingly. He didn't have the time to shatter or to break apart. He wasn't going to hit the ground.

But that would be better wouldn't it? If when he fell he felt the impact of the concrete. He could handle death – it was such a passive process after-all. So easy in comparison to the alternative that involved John: John pleading, begging for him not to do it, John grieving for him, then moving on, packing up his things and tucking them away out of sight and out of mind. John meeting women, loving women, marrying a woman and settling down in a house with a dog and a homogeneous statistical number of children – probably one boy and one girl just to add insult to injury. Then John's rage when Sherlock returned, John's rejection and hatred, John screaming that he never wanted to see him again, that he wanted him to stay the fuck out of his life. John slamming the door in his face, John taking comfort in his new wife, John forgetting all about him…

Sherlock pressed his burning cheek against the cold stone wall and breathed in the smell of decaying paint. He felt feverish, similar to the way he had this summer when he had contracted a nasty strain of the flu. He had spent days passed out in bed, only being brought back to the brink of consciousness by the feeling of John's cool palm pressing against his overheated forehead.

He pressed his own hand against his forehead now and felt the sweat of his palm mingle with the sweat coming from his brow. He could use this, this feeling of utter panic and unadulterated fear. He was a good liar but he couldn't act. Acting required the ability to convincingly approximate the emotions that you were trying to convey and the only thing that Sherlock had ever been able to do with his emotions was smother them beneath the guise of impassivity. But he felt raw at the moment and he knew that if he spoke now Moriarty would be able to hear the tremor in his voice and the stuttering quality of his breath that bordered on hyperventilation. He could be convincing like this.

Sherlock slipped his sweating palm into the left pocket of his trousers and pulled out the disposable phone that Irene had given him. She'd programmed two numbers into the contacts list. His fingers traced the number he knew by memory before he selected the second one.

The phone rang twice before the call connected and the tinny sound of Moriarty's voice echoed down the line,

"Sherlock," He cooed, "I've been rendered practically breathless with anticipation waiting for you to call, although to be honest, I would really rather be having this conversation face to face – I'm personal like that."

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath before he said, "I think I've given you more credit than you've rightfully earned. This recent plan to torture me is, at best, the work of a lazy amateur."

"Now Sherlock, play fair, you know that I can't resist provocation. It just sends my blood positively boiling."

"I've decided to take pity on you," Sherlock said as he staggered to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the wall in case his legs proved to be inconveniently untrustworthy, "I'll show you how to destroy me and the people I love."

Moriarty paused and for a second Sherlock could only hear the sound of his quiet breathing down the line, "Is this some kind of trick? Are you trying to out play me?"

"No, this is a parley."

"Parley? I never took you to be a nautical man."

"As a child I wanted to be a pirate." Sherlock said to his own chagrin – ever since that ill-fated day when Mycroft had walked in on him wearing an eye patch in the bath, brandishing a wooden sword at a rubber duck, he had gleefully told every person that his baby brother had once wanted to sail the seven seas. His throat ached with the memory of it as he thought about Mycroft, the person who had tormented and tortured him his entire life, the person who had thrown his Winnie the Pooh bear into the rain, the person who used to yank viciously at his hair and who had managed to call him 'intellectually inferior' in over thirteen languages just to labour the point. He thought of his brother who had read 'The Ulysses' to him every night in order to bore him to sleep and who had dragged him out of the gutters when he was so strung out on cocaine that he could barely walk. He thought of his brother shackled to some radiator in the building across the street, his life resting on the whim of a mad man, and he felt his chest ache with the prospect of loss.

If it's true what they say, that losing a lover is like losing your soul, then perhaps losing a brother is like losing a limb or some vitally important organ. Sherlock shook these thoughts from his head as he continued to ascend the stairs to the roof.

"I can't win at my own game," he said, "So I thought that I'd settle for winning at yours."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

"You want to destroy me. I'm the only person who knows how best to achieve that particular task."

"I have to say that you're confusing me. Why would you willingly tell me how to destroy you?"

"Because you have my brother and you've already tried to kill John twice. And I'm not going to tell you how to destroy me, I'm going to do it myself." Sherlock had reached the roof at this point, he keyed in the code that opened up the emergency exit and headed outside. Freezing winter winds assaulted him and he realised, with mild – illogical – delight that it was just beginning to snow.

"I have one condition though."

"I expected as much."

Sherlock walked across the roof and stood so that he could see over the edge. The drop was significant, if he was really going to hit the ground then the fall would kill him. The passing pedestrians looked small, like miniature, moving silhouettes. His eyes scanned the ground until he recognised the unmistakable outline of John's form. He was standing on the opposite side of the road, his back pressed against a brick wall, his hand dutifully clenched around Sherlock's phone. In that moment John reminded him of a toy solider, standing in the exact same position where his child owner had last placed him, waiting to be picked up and played with again. The analogy was apt and it made him feel nauseous.

"Sherlock," Moriarty sang down the line, "Are you still with me? What's your 'one condition' – as if I didn't already know - ?"

"Let Mycroft go and never interfere with my family again."

Moriarty hummed, "Do you consider John to be in that particular demographic?"

Sherlock swallowed against the dryness in his throat, "Yes."

"That's rather touching… sentimental even."

"Not really, 'sentimentality' and 'family' are not two terms that are necessarily synonymous with each other."

"I'm sure that believing that makes it easier for you to lie to yourself. I went through a stage of caring about people but then I hit puberty and the empathy just grew right out of me. It seems my dear Sherlock that you, on the other hand, are going through the painful process of growing in to your state of newly found sentiment. Is this the work of the good old, steadfast John Watson? I bet that little cold heart of yours just melted when you first clapped eyes on him. The poor injured man, the lonely man, the lost man, the army doctor fighting in a war, not because he believes in it, but because he wanted to stitch up the wounded and save some lives. I bet he had you positively trembling at the knees the first time he fired a gun. You're that transparent."

The contempt in his voice was so potent that Sherlock could almost imagine him spitting the words.

"It's pathetic Sherlock, it really is, the way that you fawn over him while simultaneously keeping up that ridiculous pretence of 'platonic friendship'. It disgusts me, you disgust me because you think that just because you work out crimes rather than commit them and fall in love with simple army doctors rather than sadistic sociopaths, that you're better than me."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"Oh I don't Sherlock. After-all, it's impossible to believe that you're an angel when you've convinced yourself that you're actually a god."

"Well, you have a rather high opinion of me don't you?"

"Yes," Moriarty hissed so quietly that at first Sherlock mistook it for an exhalation rather than a word, "I do and that's why I need to bring you to your knees. I burn with the longing of it Sherlock, the desire to slowly rip you apart, to tear out the hearts of the people that you love and feed them to you so that you can feel the exact moment when each one stops beating. I want to bring you so low, to strip you of everything that you have until you have no choice but to take your own life. So, forgive my scepticism, but do you really think that you're capable of torturing yourself to the degree that I yearn for?"

"Yes I do."

"Well isn't that ambitious? Tell me, how do you plan on appeasing me?"

Sherlock breathed in a slow breath. He turned his face up towards the opaque white sky and breathed in the smell of snow. It was falling faster now and he wondered, with a childish spark of enthusiasm, if it would settle. In the winter months he had always prayed for the snow to settle – it was the only legitimate excuse for not having to go to school. When he was a child, before he had built up an impenetrable barrier between his brother and himself, he had used to run into Mycroft's bedroom at six in the morning and trample all over his sleeping body with his ice cold feet. He used to shake and tug and plead with him until Mycroft relented and begrudgingly took him outside to play in the snow.

He knew that it was only frozen water but it never failed to make him stand and stare in awe as it fell from the sky and transformed London into stark white blobs. It covered up the grime and the mess, it wiped the proverbial slate clean – even if the pretence only lasted until the temperature rose and the snow melted into water.

He'd never asked John if he liked the snow. He could add that to his list of regrets. He could still see John standing on the ground below and he wanted, more than anything, to whisper into the icy air: Trust me John. It's all a trick, an illusion, a lie made to look like the truth with the help of some smoke and mirrors. It's not real. I'm going to fall but I won't hit the ground, I'm not going to die, I'm not going to leave you for long, I'm coming back. Please believe me, please don't hate me, please wait for me…

"Come and stand on the roof of your building." Sherlock said instead as he finally turned his face away from John. He couldn't look at him anymore. They didn't have time.

"Why?"

"Because in about ten minutes I'm going to jump to my death in front of John Watson and I want you to watch the fall destroy us both."


	27. From Your Stomach to Your Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Dear much beloved readers, just a quick note to say that this was the hardest, most taxing, most excruciating chapter that I have had to write - thus far. My own writing ability failed me repeatedly throughout this part of the story and for that I can only apologise. If you want to scream at me - for any reason - then please do. I love it when my readers scream, I'm sadistic like that.
> 
> And now back to what you all actually want to read:

The cold was making John want to scream. It was clawing its way inside his flesh and taking possession of his brain. The icy wind relentlessly battered him and vindictively crept down the neckline of his jumper and slithered up the space between the fabric of his jeans and his shivering legs. He had never felt so cold before in his entire life, not even last winter when a jewel thief had almost drowned him in a frozen lake. It was painful being this cold. He couldn't move his limbs for fear of losing any more body heat than he already had, and he couldn't breathe too deeply because the icy air stung his lungs and made them feel raw. The snow wasn't even melting on his skin anymore, it just lay on his cheeks and hands in the form of perfectly preserved snowflakes. It was ridiculous. He was being transformed into a walking, human fridge.

People passed him, coat collars turned up, umbrellas fending off the fast falling snow. Most of them walked by without looking at him but a few, more observant, pedestrians cast him a fleeting look of contempt as they took in his sodden trousers and mud smeared jacket. He knew that he looked and smelled like a tramp. His face was boasting the build-up of four days' worth of stubble, the skin around his eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep and his body stank of a mixture of marsh water and stale sweat. He looked hideous and he felt even worse.

When all of this was over, John mused as he pressed his head against the brick wall behind him, he was going to get into their shower back at Baker Street and he wasn't going to come out until the hot water ran cold. After that, he was going to change into his pyjamas, order from the Indian takeaway that Sherlock liked, and then he was going to eat curry while forcibly spooning rice into Sherlock's grumbling mouth. After that, he was going put on the 1984 Miss Marple box-set that he had brought Sherlock for his last birthday and he was going to listen to Sherlock shouting at the TV screen as he deduced who the murderer was from the credits. After that, he was going to bed and he was going to sleep until his body decided that it had had enough and then, in the morning, he was going to work out how he was supposed to date a self-proclaimed sociopath. He assumed that conventional courtship was out, as he supposed were traditional dinner dates, anniversary celebrations and normal gift giving.

John was thinking about the potential horrors that Valentine's Day would hold for the both of them when he heard someone gasp. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing close to him, her eyes were cast up towards the sky. Instinctively, John's own eyes travelled her gaze to see what she was staring at.

She was not staring at the sky, he soon realised, but rather at the roof of Bart's hospital. More specifically, she was staring at the figure that was standing on the ledge of the roof.

At first he thought that it was just one of the hospital workers who had popped out for a quick smoke between shifts. But then, as his eyes adjusted to the stark, white brightness that surrounded the figure he felt realisation slice its way into his chest_

"Sherlock." The name left his mouth in one sudden, involuntary whoosh of exhaled air.

"Do you know him?" The woman beside him asked, "Do you know what they're doing?"

John hadn't registered that she had spoken because his brain was currently stuttering and choking on thoughts that didn't make sense. Sherlock shouldn't be on a roof, this wasn't part of the plan – not that he actually knew what the plan was – but he was sure that if Sherlock had intended to do something which involved standing on a roof, in the middle of a snow storm, then he would have at least mentioned it_

"Is it for charity, what they're doing? Some sort of endurance thing?"

"I'm sorry what?" John asked as he continued to stare at Sherlock – who he was beginning to think was merely an apparition. Maybe he was hallucinating? That made more sense. He was sleep-deprived and hung over after-all. Or perhaps he was just going completely fucking mad. These were viable options. Maybe he should slap himself to test his theory.

"At first I thought that he was going to jump but then I saw the other one and I assumed that they were doing this for a charity or something… they're not waving any banners though and I'm not entirely sure what charity would raise money by getting men to stand on roofs in the middle of December. Perhaps it's for some degenerative nerve disease, ALS or some similar illness, or perhaps it's something to do with art, an externalised exhibition or some such_"

"Wait," John said as her words finally sunk in. Everything inside his body felt like it was slowing down as he turned his head from the sky and looked at her, "What do you mean by 'the other one'?"

She blinked and stared at him for a second like he was being intentionally difficult before she turned and pointed upwards in the opposite direction of where Sherlock was standing. John followed her finger until his eyes alighted on what she was pointing at. On the roof of the building that John was currently leaning against, stood Moriarty. He was facing Sherlock and smiling.

"Oh what the… what the fucking fuck!?" John choked as all the air left his lungs in one sudden, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry?" The woman asked, taking a step back from him, obviously frightened by his outburst. But John couldn't speak because his brain was not currently capable of forming words – let alone coherent thoughts. He stared up at Moriarty and then turned his attention back to Sherlock. Two black figures surrounded by snow, separated by an expanse of icy air and a fatal fall.

His brain wasn't talking to him, it wasn't forming words it was just screaming, similar to the way that it used to scream at him when he was in Afghanistan and he was attempting to stitch up the bleeding arteries of dying men while simultaneously trying not to get shot himself. His brain was screaming so loudly that he thought that his skull might split apart and it was screaming because this was not good, this was not fucking good at all because, Sherlock standing on a roof in the middle of a snow storm was bad enough but, Sherlock standing on a roof in the middle of a snow storm facing Moriarty was… it was…

But he couldn't find a word that fit just how bad that was because his brain was too busy screaming inside his skull and he knew that he couldn't make it stop. He had never been able to make it stop no matter how hard he tried. The only person who could make his brain grow quiet was Sherlock – as fucking irony would have it – and he knew this because Sherlock had made the screaming stop before. The screaming that used to happened at night when he dreamed about blood soaked sand and the pleading cries of dying men. Sherlock had made it stop, he'd sucked the poison out of John's blood and had transfused something pure back into him. He made the world grow gorgeously quiet.

But now he was standing on a roof and the screaming had returned and it was deafening because you don't put precious things on high shelves. You don't put precious things on high shelves ever, not even for a minute, a moment, a mere second! You don't, you can't, you mustn't! You mustn't because if they fall they smash. They smash to pieces, thousands of precious little pieces. Smash, smash, SMASH!

The phone in his pocket was ringing and John scrambled for it. His fingers were numb but he still managed to connect the call and place the receiver to his ear.

There was a few seconds of silence before Sherlock said, "John, can you see me?" Sherlock's voice sounded wrong, it was shaking and that couldn't happen because if he shook too hard then he would shake himself off the roof.

John swallowed and tried to remember how to speak, it took him a few attempts but at last he managed to say, "Sherlock… why… what are you doing?"

"Moriarty can see us_"

"What are you doing?"

"He's listening to our conversation too."

"Sherlock_"

"I'm sorry but he insisted on listening to this_"

"Answer me!" John shouted as cold panic starting biting into his throat. Silence ensued and that was wrong, so very wrong because this was the moment where Sherlock was supposed to explain that, although the situation looked bad, everything was actually under control. This was the moment where Sherlock was supposed to say 'Vatican Cameos' and John was supposed to spring into action so that they could save the day and go home.

But Sherlock wasn't doing either of those things, he was just breathing, breathing like he was on the verge of hyperventilating,

"I couldn't have told you before John, you wouldn't have let me do it otherwise, would you?"

"Do what?" John asked against the sudden ache that had taken hold of his throat.

"I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to be normal. This is what normal people do isn't it? They put the people they love before themselves? It's what you would do isn't it? So you can't blame me or hate me for doing something that you would be doing yourself if our positions were reversed, you said so in the car. You said that you'd kill for me. I'm just returning the favour."

There was no blood left in his body now, John was sure of that because his heart felt as if it was contracting around nothing but air.

"Sherlock…" and he had to swallow and take a steady breath because he was sure that if he didn't then he would vomit, "What are you doing?"

"I'm protecting you_"

"No, Sherlock, that is not an answer to my question_"

"He's not going to stop John. He'll kill Mycroft and then he'll kill you_"

"What are you doing?!"

The line went quiet for a second before Sherlock said,

"I'm going to kill for you."

"And who, exactly," he said through gritted teeth, "Are you going to kill?" But he already knew and he had known, instinctively, since he had first seen Sherlock standing on the ledge because there is only ever one reason why anyone, Sherlock Holmes included, stands that close to the edge of a roof in the middle of a snow storm. There's only ever one victim that they have in mind.

"Who are you going to kill?" He asked, softly this time, after Sherlock had been quiet for too long.

Another second of silence passed before Sherlock said, "Myself."

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ," John breathed as he felt his knees finally give out and hit the freezing concrete. Even though he had anticipated his answer the shock of it being confirmed still ripped through him like a hot flame through paper, "No this…" he had no words for this, "No you can't…" he tried to look up at Sherlock but tears where blurring his vision. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. White noise filled up the world and for a second John could see nothing but white and could hear nothing but static. The pressure behind his eyes and ears built up to painful levels but just as he thought that he was going to faint, Sherlock's voice brought him back.

"John, please, you need to understand_"

"You can't do this Sherlock." He breathed, keeping his head down because looking up had suddenly become a herculean task.

"John_"

"No, you can't, I refuse to understand or accept anything. You can't do this to me, you can't do this to me, you can't fucking do this to me Sherlock!" He sobbed. It hurt to sob because his throat was raw and his lungs felt like they had been slashed to pieces but he couldn't help it, he couldn't stop himself.

"I'm doing this for you_"

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" He shouted, finally finding the energy to drag himself back onto his feet, "You're not doing this for me. If you do this… if you hurt yourself, in anyway, then you will destroy me. I'd rather die Sherlock, do you understand that? Do you understand that if you fall and break yourself you're going to break me too? You mad, stupid fucking bastard_ what sort of logic is that?! You're going to kill yourself to protect me? To protect me! We need to get you tested, we need to hook your brain up to an electroencephalograph so we can work out how the fuck you managed to convince yourself that any of THIS is for my benefit, you bloody stupid, stupid, stupid prick."

John braced his hands on his knees and breathed deeply. His brain had just haemorrhaged words out of his mouth. He wasn't any making sense but then again why should he? No one else on the planet currently was.

"John," Sherlock said his name so softly that it made John wince, "This is the only way."

"No it isn't." He said, shaking his head over and over again until the world started to spin, "You're Sherlock Holmes. Think of another way because this way isn't even an option. I've taken it off the table. It's not going to happen. And when you climb down off that roof I am going to kick the living shit out of you for even suggesting something so stupid."

"Moriarty is_"

"I don't give a flying fuck what Moriarty has done, will do or is currently doing. Heinrich Himmler, Robespierre and fucking Caligula could be up there with him for all I care, you are not jumping off that roof. You are not going to kill yourself. Walk back the way you came and I'll meet you in the foyer."

He wanted Sherlock in his hands now. He wanted to feel the heat from his skin and the beating of his heart and the expansion and deflation of his lungs. He needed to feel him exerting the basic functions of life. He was too far away standing up there, a black figure starkly contrasted against an opaque white sky and thousands of falling snow flakes. He was a precious thing on a high shelf and John would not allow for him to fall and smash. Not for his sake, not for anyone's.

Sherlock's voice shook when he said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, you don't need to be, just stop this OK? Just… come on, come down_"

"I can't_"

"Why not?"

"Because you can't out run a bullet John! You of all people should know that." Sherlock finally snapped, "We think that we're impervious to death, that we're invincible, masters of our own little universes and that we alone have the power to decide when we've had enough of living. But we're not and we don't, we're nothing more than carefully woven biological structures of flesh and bone and blood and anything can kill us at any time. But we have to tell ourselves that we're something more than that because otherwise we'd run mad with the grim realisation that the world is indifferent to us and that nothing that we do means anything."

Sherlock's breathing was growing increasingly shallow and fast and John could see that he was pacing up and down the icy ledge – because, apparently, standing on the ledge was no longer reckless enough for his liking.

"You've studied the brain. You've seen its intricacies, the delicate way in which it has been put together. It's beautiful, astounding, it's the only thing that matters because it makes us who and what we are. Without it we're nothing more than a body and what is a body, John? Nothing but transport and yet people still obsess over it, they spend years – decades! – worrying about their bodies, running miles and lifting weights and eating the right foods in order to keep their bodies fit – all while hating the parts that they don't like. It's exhausting! All the effort people put in to growing a body and sculpting a body and hating a body. Why do they do it, John? Don't they realise that the body means nothing? That it is reduced to nothing when the mind leaves it?

"But now we get to the real issue of the matter," Sherlock said, sounding slightly manic, and John watched with his heart in his throat as Sherlock wobbled slightly as he continued to pace, "What does it take to destroy a mind? This beautiful, astonishing, complex thing that makes us who we are? A bullet, a stroke or perhaps just a bad bump to the head? All it takes is a split second and it's all gone, all those memories, all the information that you've spent years collecting and amassing and storing… and so you realise that life has no meaning because if the body doesn't mean anything and the mind can be so easily destroyed then nothing in the world matters. Nothing means anything because nothing that you do or say or think matters because you spend decades building your body and building your brain only to have it all taken away from you in a second. So it doesn't matter if I die today or in forty years from now because the end result is ultimately the same. But… but at least this way, if I die this way, today, then you'll get to live and that means something doesn't it? That matters. I'm not saying that your life means more than mine but your mind is so much more placid so perhaps you'll enjoy it more."

Sherlock sounded so sincere and resolute. He actually believed that by killing himself he would be treating John to some level of cosmic kindness?! And that was the second that John realised that he had been dealing with this situation in completely the wrong way. He had been trying to apply normal, rational, human logic to Sherlock's madness and that was ridiculous because you can't neutralise insanity with rationality. Sherlock was standing on a roof getting ready to jump because he thought that that was a perfectly normal, logical thing to do and he wasn't going to come down just because John told him that he was acting like a mad fucking bastard.

If John wanted to get through to Sherlock then he was going to have to fight fire with fire. He was going to have to act like a mad fucking bastard too. He scanned the area and saw, about ten meters away, a construction site. Beneath a piece of blue tarpaulin there was a pile of stacked bricks. Before he could think about the insanity of what he was about to do, he ran over to the stack of bricks and pried one away from the pile.

"John what are you_" But Sherlock stopped speaking when John took a few steps back and hurled the brick through one of the ground floor windows of the building that Moriarty was currently standing on top of. Glass shattered and covered the pavement, mingling with the settling snow. John approached the window and knocked out a few of the more jagged edges from the frame with his jacket clad elbow before he carefully started to climb inside.

"John! What are you_?"

"Do you think that you could be quiet for a second?" John said through gritted teeth as he tried to guide his leg through the window without lacerating his thigh. The inside of the building stank of stale air and decay. It was freezing and even in the shadowy darkness of the room John could still see his breath fogging out in front of him. He looked around, took in the lewd graffiti on the cracked, white washed walls and the empty bottles of cider that scattered the ground. Mycroft was nowhere in sight but neither was any of Moriarty's henchmen so John decided to count his blessings. He had no weapon and even though he knew how to kill with his hands he knew that he couldn't compete with a loaded gun. But currently he didn't care because he had the choice of either doing what he was about to do, and run the risk of getting killed, or he could watch Sherlock plummet to his death. It wasn't really a choice when he put it like that.

At the far end of the room he saw a set of two doors and he ran towards them,

"John!" Sherlock hissed hysterically down the phone, "Get out of there now."

"Sorry, I can't do that." John said as he reached the doors and threw them open. A line of stairs confronted him and he began to climb,

"You said so yourself Sherlock, you can't outrun a bullet. But I can push you aside and take it myself."

"Don't you dare."

"Are you still standing on the roof."

"Yes."

"Well then, tell Moriarty that I'll be with him in a minute_ oh, but wait, you said that he was listening to this conversation. I suppose I should tell himself shouldn't I, keep him in the loop – which, by the by, was not a luxury that you decided to afford me today – but I shouldn't be angry should I? This is really all my fault isn't it? Because I'm too stupid to understand that it doesn't matter whether you die today or in forty years because apparently your life doesn't have meaning." John said breathlessly as he continued to climb, the air seemed thinner in here and almost colder than it was outside,

"Well fuck you Sherlock, seriously. Your life doesn't have meaning?! I could kill you for saying that but I can't at the moment because I'm too busy trying to stop you from killing yourself you bloody, selfish wanker."

John had to pause for a moment because he had just climbed eleven flights of stairs in less than two minutes and his limbs felt like they were on fire.

"I suppose I can't be angry at you for that either can I because you are, after all, a sociopath – or at least you claim to be one – so why should I expect you to love me or need me or in any way feel like our relationship has given your life some semblance of meaning? I can't blame you for not loving me can I? But I'll tell you something Sherlock, because it's the truth, my life has meaning and that meaning starts and fucking ends with you. I know this because I spent three months wanting to put a bullet in my brain and then I met you and I didn't want to die anymore. You give my life meaning and whether I die today or in forty years that fact will remain the same. So it's counterproductive for you to die to save me because when you're dead and cold and six feet underground, I won't want to be alive because when you're dead my life has no meaning. Now do you understand that you unempathetic twat?"

John had reached the top of the stairs and he braced his hands on his knees in order to get his breath back. He felt like his head was going to explode. He wanted to hit something, he wanted to hit Sherlock and then he wanted to salve the wound better with his tongue and then hit him again.

Sherlock was breathing almost as raggedly as he was when he said," You've got it all wrong."

John snorted, "Yeah, I usually do, but I can't help it. I'm not as smart as you." He ran a hand across his sweating brow before he finally straightened up and faced the door that led onto the roof.

"I'm wrong for you too aren't I, Sherlock?"

"Oh, God, no you_"

"Because I run on sentiment and you run on fucked up logic. But I don't care because I love you and you were right before, about if our positions were reversed. Well guess what my love, I've just reversed them."

And before Sherlock could say anything else, John opened the door and stepped onto the roof.

Freezing wind and snow assaulted him and he had to shield his face against the blast with his hand. It was so bright up here and so much colder due to the lack of shelter. He squinted against the unbearably bright light and, through the slats of his fingers, he saw Moriarty, looking like a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the white sky. Although he was still standing on the ledge he was facing John now. His eyes were glowing and his mouth was curled up into a smile of incandescent joy.

"Oh John," He cooed happily as he jumped down off the ledge and back onto the flat platform of the roof, "That was brilliant. It was… stunning. I have envisioned how this would go so many times and – truth be told – you have out done me, really, gold star for you Johnny boy."

John felt his heart stutter in his chest as Moriarty took a few languid steps closer until he was standing right in front of him. This close John could see just how dark his eyes were. They were like staring into two light-less chasms,

"When our Sherlock first called me up and told me that he was going to jump to his death in front of you, well, not to give him credit – God knows he's a little compliment whore – I was excited. I really was. But then you," Moriarty said as he tugged at the collar of John's jacket, "You stole you show. All that pleading and crying, falling to your knees… that was enough to merit a standing ovation… but then you smashed the window and came charging up here like the good old army doc that you used to be and…" he bit his lip and inclined his face closer to John's, so close that John could smell the acrid cologne rolling off his suit, "Well, honey, this is just breathtaking."

John swallowed, "I'm glad that you approve." He said tightly and Moriarty responded with a dazzling smile.

"That's an understatement. I want to give you a gift." He made a show of patting his pockets, "But I don't think that I have anything suitable on me. Hmm… how about I show you my appreciation?" He said quietly and before John knew what was happening, Moriarty had grabbed him by the hair and was dragging him towards the edge of the roof. John cried out and tried to disentangle himself from Moriarty's grasp but he couldn't quite get purchase of his legs.

His knees smashed into the concrete ledge, and for a few sickening seconds the sight of the distant pavement came into view, before Moriarty had dragging him back onto his feet.

"Sorry about that," He said with a bashful smile, "I would have done it over there but I wanted him to be able to see."

John turned his head and just caught a glimpse of Sherlock standing on the other roof, watching them, before Moriarty grabbed him by the throat and smashed his lips against John's.

John sputtered and tried to wrench his face away but Moriarty's fingers were digging viciously into his throat. His lips were dry and cold, his tongue intrusively invading John's mouth with a force that made him want to gag.

He choked against the squeeze of Moriarty's hand and thought that he was about to pass out from the lack of blood to his brain when, suddenly, Moriarty bit down hard on his lower lip and released him. John staggered back, gasping for air and wiping furiously at his mouth. Moriarty's teeth had pierced the delicate skin of his lip and now blood was flooding across his tongue.

"Oh that was precious," Moriarty purred as his eyes went to the phone in John's hand, "Is that Sherlock on the line? Be a dear and let me have a little chinwag. All I have is this little ear piece, I can hear him but he can't hear me."

John held out the phone, knowing that it was futile to argue.

Moriarty took it and put it to his ear, "Did you like that Sherlock? Because I did, I quite liked using your little toy. He's got a good mouth on him that one, a real keeper if you ask me."

Sherlock said something down the line and Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Don't be dramatic, it was just a kiss and kisses don't count – not when they're on the mouth". He said, throwing a conspiratory wink in John's direction, "No honey, you should be proud, finally your pet is doing something interesting and bless him he's trying his best. I'm not a fan of army doctors but for him I could make an exception."

Moriarty smiled at him in way that made John's flesh crawl, "I could steal him away for a few weeks, lock him in a little white room and see how long it would take to make him scream. But I've done that already – sort of – the whole windmill affair. I don't like repeating myself, I hate it when I'm boring. Although torture isn't boring… and neither is this_ this is exciting! Isn't it exciting? Ask me John, come on, ask me what I find exciting."

John wiped the blood from his lips and spat, "What's exciting_?"

"LOVE!" Moriarty cried, twirling in a circle and kicking up a pile of snow in John's direction, "Isn't it fantastic? God, the way you love him… I was listening, but of course you knew that – there I go repeating myself again. You know if I had emotions then I'm sure I would have cried, I'm sure that I was this close to tearing up. It makes this so much better. Oh," he breathed, looking at John adoringly, "It's going to rip him apart Johnny boy, it's going to be like slitting him from his stomach to his throat, oh… thank you, thank you for this John really, honey, I don't know how to thank you. I couldn't have done it without you. I don't even need Mycroft now. I was going to open up his skull and send Sherlock his frontal lobe in a jar."

Moriarty turned and looked at Sherlock on the opposing roof as he spoke into the phone, "You would have liked that wouldn't you? That way, with your brother's head split into pieces, you would finally be the clever one. I could do that for you anyway if you want, considering how much you've treated me today. But then again I don't want to spoil you, I already have another gift planned and you're going to get that in just a minute."

John took the opportunity, while Moriarty was occupied taunting Sherlock, to push himself away from air vent that he was leaning against. He steadied himself, swallowing against the pain in his throat – which, he was sure, was already turning purple with blooming bruises. He took a few careful steps forward before he lunged and grabbed hold of Moriarty by the lapels of his suit jacket. He ground his feet into the floor and swung Moriarty in his hands until he was teetering over the side of the ledge, the action caused for the phone in his hand to skid across the ground and make its way to the other side of the roof.

Moriarty looked up at him and pursed his lips in annoyance, "Boo. John, really, where did you learn your manners? I was having a conversation with your boyfriend_ or are you two not ready to use that title yet?"

"Shut up!" John hissed as he thrust Moriarty further over the side.

"Or what? You're going to kill me? Don't be obvious, I already knew that, but you can't kill me just yet not until I've given Sherlock his next present."

John's limbs were shaking so violently that he could barely manage to stand straight. The wind howled and blasted another stream of snow into his face. A drop of blood from his lip fell onto Moriarty's chin.

He smiled hideously up at John as he felt the drop of blood trickle from his chin to the hollow of his throat.

"Where is Mycroft?"

Moriarty blinked in surprise before realisation dawned on his face, "Oh, are you worried that I've hidden him somewhere? Boo John, boo to you again. I'm not that sort of man. Tricks are so boring when you're not around to see them unfold. No, dear, he's on the sixth floor, tied to a radiator, perfectly safe and sound."

"How can I be sure that you're telling the truth?"

"Well, you can't, but I am because… well I am. Now shush and look up at Sherlock because his gift is coming up behind him right… this… second."

John's head shot up. He looked across at Sherlock, his eyes frantically searching the surrounding area, trying to see who was about to attack him. But there was nothing. Sherlock was standing alone, now a few meters away from the ledge – thank fucking Christ – and was staring at John wide eyed and shaking.

A second later he watched as Sherlock opened his mouth and cried "JOHN!" but before he could work out why he was being called he felt a strange pressure building in his abdomen. He looked back down and saw that Moriarty was holding onto the handle of a knife and that the blade was currently embedded in John's stomach.

He stared at it dispassionately for a moment. It didn't hurt – not yet at least – but that was to be expected. He was in shock and shock deadened pain. It was merciful like that.

"This is what love does to you John. It rips you apart from your stomach to your throat." Moriarty sang before he yanked the knife upwards and tore a gaping wound through John's body. He felt that and like a spell had been broken the fog of numbing shock smashed apart and was instantly replaced by agonising pain.

John released his hold on Moriarty. He caught a brief glimpse of his smiling face before he fell over the side, taking the knife with him. It took two seconds for him to hit the ground and John knew this because he heard the precise moment that he did.

Blood, bright red and arterial, flooded out of his body and John staggered back, collapsing onto a fast forming pile of snow. He pressed his hand to his stomach and gasped when he felt the size of the wound. It was bad. It was really bad. Abdominal wounds take the longest to kill you but this… this wound was long and deep. It had punctured organs, sliced through flesh – possibly even severed the celiac artery. And he was dying, faster than he had ever felt himself die before. Faster than when he had been shot in the shoulder, faster than when a serial rapist had cornered him in an alleyway last month and had attempted to squeeze the life out of his throat.

He was dying and the realisation of this made tears spring to his eyes because he didn't want to die. Not yet. Not without Sherlock here. But he could hear Sherlock's voice; he could hear him calling his name. He was down below on the street where people were screaming at the sight of Jim Moriarty's – no doubt – impact exploded body.

Sherlock was crying out his name, sounding panicked and that was good because John was panicking so at least they were on the same page – for once.

It was so strange to feel so much of his own blood on his hands. It was hot beneath his fingers and it smelled like iron filings. It smelled of him, of his body and of the dirty ground that he was lying on. The thick layer of snow beneath him bit painfully into his back. He loved that other pain just as much as he loved the pain in his throat and the pain on his head because those pains were not like the one coming from the wound in his stomach, those pains weren't dying pains.

Sherlock's voice was growing closer. John could hear it echoing up the staircase. But John was getting further away because he had already bled too much blood and he was still bleeding more and the heart needs blood to pump to the brain to keep you awake. There wasn't enough blood to do that anymore. And it hurt so badly, this pain in his stomach, this dying pain and he wanted it to stop.

He looked up at the sky and felt the snow falling on his face. He looked up at the bright expanse of dense, opaque whiteness and he watched as it grew whiter and brighter with each passing second. He heard Sherlock calling his name, closer now, so close but still too far away.

The white grew brighter until it was so bright that it hurt to look but John kept his eyes open as he choked on blood that was no longer just coming from the bite mark on his lip. He swallowed it down because he needed all the blood that he could get because too much of it had already leaked out of him and onto the snow.

Sherlock was here now, he could hear his voice next to his ear, he could feel his warm, frantic breath on his cheek, his trembling hands caressing his face, his neck, and shoulders and then joining his own hands on his stomach.

But he couldn't see him because the white had grown so bright now, so bright in fact that it had tipped itself over the spectrum and had turned the world dark.


	28. Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Dear patient - always much beloved - readers, I had to cut this chapter in half because otherwise the sheer tonnage of words would have killed me stone dead and you would have had to wait another fortnight before you got an update. I've been disgustingly busy lately hence why this update is rather late. I wrote most of this on a train because travelling from one place to another is the only time I have free to write. I'll shut up now. Read on:

Blood! The word burnt red behind his eyes, it flashed and throbbed like an illuminated heartbeat in his mind. Blood was everywhere, it had spread itself vindictively over the floor, it had soaked itself into the snow and into the fibres of Sherlock's coat and into the cells of his skin. It was _on_ John but it wasn't _in_ him, it was everywhere that it wasn't supposed to be and Sherlock found that he could hardly breathe through the smell of it.

It was acrid and harsh and suffocating. Intoxicating iron mixed with the smell of warm flesh, John's warm flesh that was rapidly turning cold, cold like corpses on metal tables or cold like vacuum packed meat in a fridge and it wasn't right! Because John was always warm and he didn't smell like this, not like acrid iron and cooling flesh. He smelled of tea – because he drank far too much of it – and of musty wool – because he wore too many of those oversized, ill-fitting, horrific-shade-of-off-white jumpers – and of that dreadful cologne that Mrs Hudson insisted on buying him every Christmas.

This wasn't John, this cold, bleeding body with its closed eyes and its barely audible breathing. This wasn't John, not his John, not John at all, he was an imposter, a thief, a rancid trick of the light, a chemical product of Sherlock's combined sleep deprivation and dehydration. This couldn't be John, because John couldn't bleed unless Sherlock gave him permission to and John couldn't die unless Sherlock was already in the process of beating him to the grave.

"Stop bleeding!" Sherlock hissed at John's lifeless form as he frantically ripped the scarf from around his neck and slid it beneath John's body. His hands trembled violently as he yanked the fabric across John's abdomen, pulling it as tight as he could against the wound. His fingers were wet and slippery with congealing blood which made it hard for him to tie to the two ends together. He couldn't grip the fabric, couldn't pull it tight enough without the ends slipping from his grasp. He let out a desperate whine of frustration as he tried, and failed, to tie a knot in the scarf for the third time.

_Useless. You are a redundant waste of genetic material that is scarcely worthy of drawing breath because you know every chemical property of every element on the periodic table but you can't work out how to tie a fucking knot! You can't help him because you're useless because you've always cared more about solving cases rather than saving lives and now he's dying, dying, DYING! Because of you, because you don't know when to stop, because you know all of the wrong things like the rate of blood coagulation in sub-zero temperatures and the various ways in which a corpse can be bruised posthumously. But none of those things matter in this moment do they? Because being able to differentiate between 243 types of tobacco ash can't make him open his eyes and being able to work out the filial connection between two men by the turn ups on a set of jeans can't stop him bleeding and it can't keep him breathing and it can't save his life and it can't stop him from leaving you in a world that was so quiet before you realised that he existed!_

Sherlock finally tied the knot, he tied it tight, so tight in fact that John groaned and his eyelids fluttered slightly. Alive. The word flashed white against the thousands of red, pulsing letters that were swarming through his mind. Alive, alive for now, alive for this second, for this moment because his stupidly loyal heart was still beating in his small, concaved chest and his lungs where still working despite the fact that his eyes were still refusing to open.

Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to be illogically counterproductive and bury his face in the crook of John's neck and whisper into his ear and beg him to open his eyes. That's what a normal human would do in a situation such as this wasn't it? If he was a normal man he would beg the almost dead body of the thing that he loved to stop dying. He would say: _"Please don't leave me. You can't die because there isn't enough opiate based drugs in world that would dull the pain of losing you. And if you die and leave me hear in this world of white noise then I will go back to Baker Street and I will pry up the third floorboard in your room where I keep my emergency stash, and I will slide a needle in my arm and relish the sting that I haven't felt for so long, and I'll pump my veins full of so much cocaine that I'll be dead before my head hits the floor."_

But because Sherlock isn't a normal man, and because he values pragmatism over sentiment, and because he knows that medicine saves lives not asinine pleas, he resisted the urge to curl into a ball and scream into the fabric of John's bloody jacket. Instead he slid one of his arms beneath John's knees and the other beneath his head and he hoisted John off the ground and held him against his chest as he carried his body across the roof.

Sherlock reached the door and kicked it opened, the sound of metal crunching against concrete echoed across the sky. It was satisfying to kick something, to fill up the silence with sound. Blood dripped off of the ends of John's fingers as they descended down the stairs and Sherlock was sure that he could hear the exact moment when each scarlet droplet splattered against the floor. It was that quiet. His footsteps echoed in the empty stairwells and his heartbeat throbbed in his ears but it was so quiet. John was so quiet. His head was resting limply against Sherlock's shoulder; his face was pressed against his neck. He was breathing, breathing quietly, so very quietly that if Sherlock hadn't felt the weak breaths against the sweating skin of his throat then he wouldn't have known that he was doing it at all.

It was suffocating, this quiet because John was such a loud human being, he made so much noise all the time. He snored and mumbled in his sleep and he angrily muttered things when he was reading the paper and he always put the teacups down on the table with a clunk and he ripped open the letters instead of slicing them with a knife and he sang in the shower and moaned loudly – even when he was trying desperately to be quiet – while he was touching himself in bed. He was a vibrating, breathing, living body of noise and Sherlock adored it. Most people would be annoyed but he wasn't. It was peaceful hearing John exerting the sounds of his basic human existence, it filled up the flat, made it buzz with warmth. It was like listening to Jean Baptiste Lully's _Gavotte_ turned down low on an ancient record player.

But now John was too busy dying to make sounds and Sherlock was petrified because he could feel the silence creeping inside him like infected blood seeping out of a toxic organ and into a pulsing vein. He hated the silence because it made his brain feel like a wasteland, it made everything turn white and cold and lifeless, it made his thoughts feel like they were breaking apart and dying inside his skull like suffocating water-bound creatures that had been washed up on dryland. Silence could only be shattered by cases or cocaine or by John but John was dying and he was taking the sound away with him and it wasn't fair because…

_I've only known you for three years, two months and nine days which is merely 9.665 percent of my entire life and mathematically speaking that is just not fair because that means that I've not even known you for a tenth of my life, and the other 90.335 percent of my life was awful because it was full of people who were the complete antonyms of you because they called me a "Freak-Psychopathic-Backwards-Wanker-Emotionless-Fuck" whereas you call me "Amazing" and you say it like you mean it, like you've never seen anything as wonderful as me in your entire life and that's almost better than a locked room murder or the feeling of a needle kissing the crook of my elbow__

"Sherlock!"

He had reached the bottom of the staircase now and Irene was running up to him, her face was colourless, completely washed white with a combination of shock and incredulity. Harsh white light, refracted from the piles of snow that had gathered on the ground outside, streamed through the broken window and caused the unfallen tears in her eyes to shine. She stared at him, then at the body in his arms for half a second, before she said,

"What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock adored her in that moment. He adored her for not being ordinary, for not being like any other normal person whose first response would have been "What happened?" But Irene wasn't a normal person, she wasn't ordinary, she never had been, that's why he liked her, that's why he had always liked her. The first time they met she had strutted around naked and had beaten him with a riding crop and now, now that the world was ending and the silence was eating him alive, she was asking him what she could do rather than what had happened because she understood that there wasn't time for reciting facts now. They were dealing in minus minutes.

He swallowed down the metallic taste in his mouth before he said, "Door."

She nodded and then quickly crossed the room. She yanked the dead bolts away from their latches, twisted the handle and then violently kicked the front door open. Dust exploded in the sudden presence of blinding light and Sherlock had to cough it out of his lungs before he was able to look at her again.

"Find Mycroft and then run."

He watched as her throat, almost the same shade of translucent white as his own, tensed as she swallowed. The second Mycroft got his hands on a phone London would be immediately locked down and she would be killed by any one of the hundred government agents looking for before she could get out of Westminster. She knew this, he didn't need to explain. Running would be the only logical, pragmatic thing to do. And yet as her eyes, hazy with a combination of moisture and smeared mascara, stared unflinchingly into his he quickly realised that she wasn't going to do that. She was going to choose sentiment over pragmatism and now, holding the bleeding body of John Watson in his arms, he finally understood why someone would do that willingly.

"I'll run when this is over," She said and then looked pointedly at John's limp, lifeless body, "And this isn't over yet."

***

Sherlock didn't experience time in the same way that other people did. He recognised time in the form of mathematical units opposed to appointed blocks of time appropriate activities. He slept when he was exhausted, not because it was _night-time_ , and he ate when he was starving, not because it was _dinnertime_ or _lunchtime_ or _breakfast-time_.Time was a ridiculous human made construct that was created in order to provide structure to the chaotic, indifferent timeline of life. Because somewhere between the creation of the sundial and the invention of the pocket watch, people had come along and deemed that the hours 7-8am and 12-1pm and anywhere between 6-10pm where for eating various sorts of time appropriate foods and that night-time was for sleeping and daytime was for working and that the strip of time between work and sleep was allocated to relaxing.

Time had been personified, hatefully, and it was ridiculous because what was the appropriate time for killing? What precious hour was allocated for that pastime? Or how about setting fires or stealing jewellery or blowing up the Houses of Parliament or dethroning a monarch or starting a war or shooting up cocaine or catching a murderer or dying? What time was a person allowed to die? Was it only supposed to happen at night-time or very early in the morning before the day had properly begun as, God forbid should the dying of one person affect the time prescribed eating habits of another! What time was a person allowed to acceptably die in this day and age? Sherlock needed to know so that he could work out the exact second that he was going to lose John Watson.

Time was too disgusting a concept for him to deal with right now so instead he focussed on breaking it up into mathematical units:

It had taken three minutes for Sherlock to reach the hospital.

It had taken the paramedics and doctors and nurses twenty seconds to take John from his arms and set his body down on a gurney.

It had then taken them a full minute to cut away his shirt in order to expose the long, gaping wound that ran from his bellybutton to the bottom of his ribs. Then another two minutes to attach a network of wires to his chest and slide needles into his veins and place an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, all the while speaking in medicine and maths and codes that Sherlock heard but didn't understand. He could have understood if he wanted to but he was too busy staring at John's closed eyes, eyes which had not opened, not once, since Sherlock had found him unconscious and bleeding in the snow.

Then they had asked him what had happened and Sherlock had hissed, "He was stabbed, obviously."

"Is he allergic to any medications?"

"No."

"Blood type?"

"A negative."

"What's his name?"

"John Watson."

"Are you a close relative?"

"Yes."

"Do you need immediate medical help?"

"No."

And then they had whisked John away – Sherlock couldn't remember how long that had taken, some agonising unit of time he imagined.

Then he had stood in the hallway, blood dripping from his fingers, just staring at the door that John had disappeared through, for sixteen seconds until one of the on-call nurses had asked him:

"Are you alright, sir? Are you bleeding?"

To which he had replied quietly, "No," to both questions. Then she had taken his pulse and sat him down on a gurney of his own and had said things to him that he hadn't heard. She had asked him some other questions but he hadn't replied and after six minutes she had smiled sympathetically at him and said,

"Alright Honey, you sit still and I'll go get a doctor."

The nurse had left and Sherlock had sat in silence for nineteen minutes until a glum faced doctor had approached him. He had sagging cheeks and a fake orange tan that made him look like a rotting pumpkin. He took Sherlock's pulse, shined a light in his eyes, asked him if he was hurt, if any of the blood belonged to him and – finally – what had happened.

"He was stabbed."

"How?"

"Are you unfamiliar with the concept of stabbing? Do you require an explanatory diagram? Because if you do I suggest you ask someone else to draw you one as I currently have neither the patience, inclination nor the energy to turn teacher."

The doctor had hummed dispassionately – almost as if he hadn't heard what Sherlock had said, "This is a matter for the police I take it?"

"I wouldn't worry about that." Sherlock had said as he fleetingly turned his attention to the entrance, "The British Government will be showing up as soon as he's consumed an entire roast chicken dinner in order to make up for the half a day that's he's gone without food."

"Oh yes, indeed, are you experiencing any nausea or light headedness?"

Sherlock had answered the rest of the doctor's questions as monosyllabically as he could, then he had allowed himself to get poked and tapped and squeezed for five minutes until the doctor had come to the contented conclusion that Sherlock was fine. Which was a horrific misdiagnosis because Sherlock was sure that his brain was turning black from heavy bruising and some of his internal organs were weeping blood into his body cavity. He didn't mention it though because he was about 99.67 percent sure that the pain was psychological and if it wasn't then he wanted to be left alone to bleed to death beneath his own skin.

Thirty-two minutes later Molly had walked past with her hair down and her ridiculously long, striped scarf dragging across the floor – obviously having just arrived at work: there was still a smear of toothpaste in the corner of her mouth and she had yet to apply the sparse amount of make-up that she wore in order to convey the idea that she an attractive woman as well as an intelligent one.

She had seen him sitting on the gurney, shrouded in a shock blanket, soaked through with melted snow and blood. She had gasped so loudly that a few passing patients had turned to look. She had been frantic at first but after she had worked out that it wasn't his blood and that he wasn't physically harmed she had calmed down a little. She had said something, a number of somethings, she had touched his face and smoothed his hair all the while letting tears leak from her eyes. But when Sherlock had done nothing but sit there in silence she had run off and grabbed hold of the nearest doctor that she could find.

Sherlock had watched her dart from one lab coat cladded doctor to another until she finally found one who knew what was going on. Eight minutes later she had run back to him, her face noticeable paler,

"Right," She had said as she brushed tears from her eyes, trying to smile but failing miserably, "He told me, the doctor, the one I was just talking to, he told me that John… that you brought him in. He's not John's surgeon but he called the operating theatre and… well John's in surgery_ I mean of course you already knew that but the doctor said that it's going to be a while – John's doctor, not the one I was talking too, although the one I was talking to was the one who talked to the doctor who told him to tell me that_ sorry, I'm mumbling. But he_ they said that John is currently stable. Which is really good considering_ I… Oh Sherlock I… don't even know what to say I'm so… well you probably wouldn't appreciate me saying that I was sorry would you?"

She had reached out her hand to take his but had stopped. She had stared at the blood and had swallowed thickly. Sherlock had looked down and stared at it too. It was starting to take on the properties of glue and was effectively sticking his fingers together. Dried blood coated his wrists and dampened the knees of his trousers. He could feel it on his chest, on his throat, in his hair, he could still smell the pungent scent in his nose. He was covered in the life giving liquid that should have been inside John and the thought of effectively wearing a part of John Watson like a coat made him want to retch.

"Here," Molly had said quickly – obviously seeing the sickening disgust on his face - "take my keys, this one is for my locker and this one is for my lab. I have soap and shampoo and a little bit of conditioner, you can use them and take a wash in the decontamination shower. I'll stay here, they know who I am, if something… if there's any news I'll run down and get you immediately, I promise."

Sherlock had stared at the set of keys that Molly had thrust into his left hand and then he had stared at the tears running down her face. He should be crying too, shouldn't he? That's what normal people did in situations like this, wasn't it? They cried, they screamed, they begged a non-existent deity for mercy. But he couldn't cry, not now because he currently felt so hollow and dry, he felt like someone had skinned him, slit open all of his veins and left him to shrivel up in the sun.

He couldn't cry and John deserved tears. John deserved so much more than him, than what he could possible offer. He deserved more than to die with his mouth defiled by Moriarty's tongue and his stomach torn apart by a mad man's blade. If this was the way that John Watson was going to die then Sherlock wanted no part of it.

"If he dies," Sherlock had said, "Don't tell me. I don't want to hear you say it. I'll be able to work it out for myself." He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so harsh but it had and Molly had flinched away like he had struck her. She deserved more than him too. Perhaps he'd tell her that one day, but then again an admission such as that would probably make her cry and that would nullify the fact that he was just trying to say something nice.

***

The shower had taken an hour at least. He'd tried to prolong it as much as he possibly could. He had stood under the hot stream of water until there was none of John's blood left on his skin and then he had washed his hair and body with Molly's tea tree smelling shampoo and soap. And then he had lain down on the ceramic tiled floor, curled into a ball and tried to block out everything apart from the feeling of the water hitting his skin.

He didn't want to get out because the second he did he would have to go back upstairs and find out whether or not John was dead. And he didn't want to know – which was a feeling that he had never experienced before, this burning desire to be ignorant, to be blissfully unaware of something that was so incredibly important. He wanted to know everything, he always had, but if, in an operating room several floors above his head, John Watson's heart had stopped beating then Sherlock didn't want to know about that. He couldn't have that information in his head because it would start a fire in his mind-palace and that would be agonising because Sherlock would have stick his hands into the flames in order to retain the memories that were being burnt to ash and his flesh would blister and his skin would disintegrate and he would be left lying paralysed, with his nerves exposed and his heart still beating slowly beneath two lines of broken ribs.

He couldn't know that John was dead because if he was dead then that was it. Death is definite; death is a state of stagnant immovability. If John died he would be gone forever. The cells in his body would die and his flesh would rot and his eyes would never open again and Sherlock would never hear his voice or smell his skin or find out what it felt like to press his face against the warmth of John's stomach or what the scar on his shoulder would feel like beneath his tongue or what it would be like to share a bed with him or what John would look like when he was forty, fifty, sixty… There would be no more fights or talks of certain things being 'A bit not good', no more midnight chases, or quiet breakfast mornings, or shared late night takeaway dinners, or giggling inappropriately at crime scenes or the making of copious cups of tea or blog posts or cab rides and the cases would never excite him again and the flat would be silent and _that_ , knowing that John's death would result in all of that _absence_ and loss of things that he hadn't even realised that shared was more excruciating than the prospect of pressing his own eyes against a shard of dry ice.

Sherlock was just a man, a brilliant man with an amazing brain but a man nevertheless, and a man can't resurrect the dead. A man can't restart a heart that refuses to beat. That's why men invented omnipotent deities that have the ability to do it for them. These Gods with a capital 'G' who have temples built in their honour and books written in their name. These Gods that you can get down on your knees and pray to, who you can beg when the cold indifference of life comes along and rips the love of your life away from you and leaves you hollow and bleeding and effectively dying from the inside out. That's why they invented God! They invented him or her or it in order to make the tragic randomness of life feel a little less random and chaotic and cruel. Because if you've spent thirty-two years of your life feeling suffocating loneliness and being called a "Freak-Psychopathic-Backwards-Wanker-Emotionless-Fuck" and then a man like John Watson limps into 9.665 percent of your life and calls you 'Amazing' and stops you from feeling alone anymore, then you want to believe that something as random and chaotic and cruel as an ill-aimed knife thrust couldn't take that all away from you.

But Sherlock was a man of science so he knew that God was an invention or a delusion or a combination of the two. So he knew that prayer was a useless activity and that no one was listening to him but, for the sake of a sociological experiment, if he was a religious man what would he say? If he could do nothing but lie here on this shower room floor with hot water beating against his skin while John Watson lay dying above his head, then what would he say to a deity that doesn't exist? He supposed that he would say something like:

_Please. Please don't let him die, don't take him away from me even though I deserve it because I'm not a good person and I never will be. Let me have him, I promise, I won't get bored, I could never get bored of him because he's the least boring thing that I've ever encountered. And I'm not asking much of you – in fact, up until this very moment I haven't asked you for anything and that's mainly because you don't exist but that is beside the point. I can do without the cocaine, I have been for years now, and I could even do without the cases – even though it would be excruciating – but I can't… not him, please, anything, take anything but him, I promise you I'll take any form of punishment gladly, I'll even beg for more, just don't take him from me, don't let him die, please, give me a chance, let me have him for more than 9.665 percent of my life, I'll let him date women after he gets tired of me, I'll let him go and let him fall in love properly and get married, I'll even help organise the wedding. Please, let him exist and be alive somewhere in the world and I'll be contented, that will be enough, I promise, please, I won't be selfish, please, let him live, please, please… please…_

"Please," Sherlock whispered into the wet tiles of the shower room as he curled his shaking limbs tighter into his chest, "Don't let him die."


	29. Aequilavium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> Just a little warning about this story. This is the last chapter that you will get from me in at least a month. Exam session is here again and unless I choose to forgo eating, sleep and all attempts at maintaining personal hygiene, I won't have the time to write anything until May. All I ask is for your continued patience and in return I shall endeavour to reward you - within reason - in any way that you see fit. Apologies.
> 
> Read on:

Waiting was such an inexpressive word, so flat and benign and utterly inapplicable for moments such as these. Waiting conveyed a state of tedious dormancy between the end of one activity and the commencement of another. Sherlock knew what waiting was, he had done it – in varying degrees – his entire life. But this was not waiting. The word wasn't adequate enough to express exactly what this was. He doubted that there was a word in the English language that could even attempt to define it. Feeling, perhaps, was the only medium through which he could succeed in describing what this moment was.

It was an ache that ebbed from the middle of his stomach to the hollow between the rungs of his ribcage. It throbbed like blood beneath a vicious bruise, hurt so badly that it made movement or any degree of complex cognitive function virtually impossible. Time passed as slowly as liquid molasses through a hole the size of a pinprick and Sherlock could feel every dissolving second as acutely as he could feel the own throb of his heart in his veins. Nothing had ever taken this long. He was sure that man's evolutionary acquisition of opposable thumbs had been quicker than this.

Everything was turning colourless: the people in the waiting room, the chairs upholstered with faux leather, the reception desk and the tired nurses who sat behind it, the walls, the ceiling, the floor, it all looked sun-bleached. The colours were so weak and the sounds were so quiet, everything was being diluted to a mere fraction of the intensity that it once was. This had happened before, the problem with the fading colours and the muffled sounds. It's what had initially driven him to cocaine. It's what had sporadically driven him to morphine. He couldn't stand the world when it was like this. The white noise made living in his own skin feel like torture, it made his veins feel over filled and turgid, it made him want to cut open his own skull just to let it breathe a little.

He couldn't think like this. He couldn't be brilliant and he needed to be brilliant now, the most brilliant that he had ever been, because John Watson was about to die and he was going to have to work out how to continue living. It was the most complex problem that he had ever had to solve.

There would be the funeral to plan for starters, flowers to buy, people to call. Then there would be the lead up to the burial. He would have to return to the flat, it's the only place he could go, of course Mycroft would insist on him staying at his house in Pall Mall but Sherlock would refuse. He would go home. He would sleep in John's bed with John's clothes until they stopped smelling of John and started to smell of Sherlock. Then he would throw them away because they would just be useless pieces of fabric, only fit for a body that lay six feet beneath the surface of the earth.

And then he would have to eulogise John during the service. It would be expected, they had lived together for three years, had been best friends – secret lovers in everyone else's eyes. He should be the one to give John the final farewell. But he would fail at every attempt at crafting a worthy eulogy, he didn't have the skill – he doubted that anyone did. You couldn't condense John Watson into a page of text, you couldn't send him to the grave with a few clichéd niceties and a poem written by some syphilitic poet who had been dead for over a century. He'd rather flay off his own skin than commit such an act of sacrilege.

He'd written a eulogy once before, almost a decade ago, for his father. It had been sickeningly easy to write, had taken him less than an hour to type out a few lamenting anecdotes interwoven with a few references to a higher power, an afterlife and something about being very much beloved and already missed. He'd even ended it with a rather nice Shakespeare quote, he couldn't remember which one – probably from Hamlet, something about filial bonds and grief induced madness. His mother had wept throughout his reading of it and at the end of the service she had kissed him repeatedly all the while sobbing about how much his father loved him. It was a lie of course but it was one that she desperately needed to believe and he had pretended to believe it too because he couldn't bear the thought of hurting her. The eulogy had been written for her sake, not his father's, and in an outwardly unacknowledged way she had known that.

His mother loved the romance of life, the thrill of it, the poetic licence of literature, the invocation of the poet to his muse. She believed in soulmates and fate and spirits – not God though, to her that was utter rot – and she had yearned so desperately for Sherlock and Mycroft to believe in these things too. False declaratives and contemptuously churned out eulogiums didn't wash with Mummy. You either loved with all the blood in your veins and marrow in your bones or you didn't love at all. To feign to have love where it had never grown was almost as hateful as the act of sadistic murder. That's why he had lied and had pretended that deep down, passed all the things that had happened, he really did love his father.

Only Mycroft had known the truth – he was the only person in the world who managed to hate their father more than Sherlock did, which was somewhat impressive. After the service they had silently celebrated the old man's brutal demise, under the pretence of mourning, by drinking a few glasses of very expensive wine and burning one of his prized medical journals in the fireplace. It hadn't been as cathartic as it should have been. His father's death hadn't liberated him; it had simply shackled Sherlock with a set of irreversible memories and the inability to prove to his father that he did, in fact, have feelings.

If only he could see him now, looking so destroyed and wrecked, his body practically disintegrating under the weight of impending grief. He must look so human, so discomposed and raw wearing a set dark green hospital scrubs that Molly had given him, his feet clad only in socks, his hair still damp from having recently washed John's blood off his skin. Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. An image flickered behind the skin of his eyelids:

His father standing in the kitchen, early morning light filtering through the bare window making the cream walls glow yellow. His mother – wearing her beautiful silk turquois dressing gown, her hair tied into a messy bun at the nape of her neck – standing opposite him, her face flushed with anger. They were arguing, trying to be quiet because of the early hour but failing hopelessly.

This memory was one that he usually kept deeply buried in the basement of his mind palace. It had taken him a number of years to tuck it safely away from the general stream of his thoughts but now here it was again, resurfacing like blood suddenly flooding out of a wound.

He had been fourteen – home for the summer holidays, silently pining for Mycroft to return from Oxford so that he would have someone to talk to. He had been studying the flight patterns of moths for the past two weeks and had therefore turned himself into a nocturnal creature too. He usually didn't get out of bed until gone midday but on that particular morning he had been woken at six thirty by the sound of his father shouting downstairs. Bleary eyed and on sleep deadened feet, Sherlock had slipped out of his room and had laid his body down across the landing so that his head could peak over the edge of the stairs. He had watched the fight unfold between the rungs of the banister.

"I refuse to let you bully me." His mother had snapped, her tone taking on a rather dangerous edge – one which Sherlock had never heard her direct at either him or Mycroft.

"Bully you? If I was capable of bullying you then we wouldn't be having this conversation, if I was the one with the deciding vote in this house I'd have already sent him."

His mother's eyes – the exact same shade of blue as his own – had flashed brilliantly with anger, "When you talk like that I find myself wondering if you're the one who lacks empathy. Do you have any idea what that would do to him? To be sent to a place like that, to be mentally dissected and labelled like a butterfly pinned to a cork board? He's your son for Christ's sake, where's your compassion!?"

"It's not my compassion that's the problem, Violet. The boy has no feelings other than those which arise from some deeply ingrained desire for self-preservation."

"There is nothing wrong with him_"

"That boy is a sociopath." His father had hissed, desperation causing blood to rise across his cheeks, "I'm telling you there's something wrong with him, the way he slinks around carryout those nasty little experiments, interfering with the corpses of animals_"

"He's just inquisitive, he's bright, he loves learning. Mycroft was just the same at his age, always picking up things off the floor and examining them. Remember his stone collection? He was obsessed with that thing."

His father's eyes had grown wide with disbelief, "Having a stone collection is not the same as sticking your entire head into a live bee hive."

"He wanted to see how the bees made honey, that's rather sweet_ he was only six!"

"Oh, good lord, woman. I know that you dote on the boy but even you can't delude yourself into believing that he's normal. He still hasn't made a single friend_"

"That's because you insist on sending him to that stuffy boarding school. They are all bigoted fools, little Hitlers in the making, Siger! Did you know that they physically abuse him? He hasn't said anything about it but I saw two circular bruises around his wrists and a nasty cut on his upper arm."

"What does that prove? For all you know the boy was just carrying out one of his ghastly experiments."

"He didn't hurt himself! They hate him_"

"And why is that? Don't you think that that might have something to do with him?"

Sherlock had watched the contraction of his mother's throat as she swallowed slowly, "What exactly," she had said quietly, "do you mean by that?"

His father had braced his arms against the kitchen counter and had turned his face towards the window, squinting against the bright morning sunlight. He had been quiet for a few moments, obviously mulling over his choice of words, before he had said,

"Some animals are able to smell illness in human beings, they respond to that on a visceral level. They can't explain why exactly but they know instinctively that something is wrong and they attempt to destroy it before it has a chance to destroy them."

His words had hung in the air thickly for an innumerable amount of time. Something in Sherlock's throat had felt like it was ballooning up and he had stared at his mother, his eyes growing hot, stomach clenching around itself, as he had waited for her to say that it wasn't true, that there wasn't a sickness in him that people could subconsciously detect. That he didn't deserve to be hated.

His mother had been practically vibrating with rage, her thin frame trembling beneath her robe, her knuckles turning white from the strain of being bent viciously into fists,

"There is nothing wrong with my son." She had said with such venom that Sherlock's father had actually flinched.

"So now he's your son?"

"Yes, currently, as you seem so unwilling to own to him."

"I'm just concerned, Violent_"

"You have no need to be. I know my Sherlock, I know his heart_"

"Oh, don't bring hideous metaphors into this. Don't try and dress him up as some sort of Byronic hero or tortured soul that just needs to be understood. Doesn't it strike you as just a little strange that he's never showed any interest in girls? He never brings any to the house, never goes out to meet them, spends all his time in that blasted room making notes in that horrid journal you brought him. Can't you see how that's abnormal? I wouldn't even mind if he was an invert but he seems just as disinterested in boys as he does girls."

"He's fourteen, still practically a baby. Would you be happy if he was fucking everything with a pulse?"

His mother never used crude language. The word had sounded wrong in her mouth and for a second Sherlock thought that he was watching a rather awfully acted play.

"I would happy to see him feel something for someone_"

"He does. Haven't you seen the way he is with Mycroft? They completely and utterly adore each other – not that the stubborn headed fools would admit to such a thing. Remember how he used to insist on holding his hand every time they left the house? Or the way that he cried when you sent Mycroft off to that God awful boarding school? And he loves me_

"I mean other people, Violet, people who he hasn't lived with his entire life, people who he isn't conditioned to feign love for. It's not normal, the contempt he has for the rest of the world. It's dangerous, he's dangerous, aren't you the least bit concerned that he could end up hurting something, that he could enjoy hurting people?"

"Oh, now you're being utterly ridiculous. You've jumped from calling him a sociopath to a sadist in a matter of minutes, complete rot. If you spent any time with him, instead of condemning him, you'd know, Siger, you'd know just how pure his intentions are. He just doesn't fit in, all the best people don't, he's unique and special and I'm glad that he's not the sort of fool who goes throwing around his affection like it's worth nothing more than dust. He just needs someone who understands him, someone worthy of his time… maybe at university, he'll find some like minded people. One day he'll find himself a friend and all this worry will be for nothing. One day he will fall in love with somebody truly extraordinary – similar to the way that he is truly extraordinary – and they will live a truly extraordinary life and he will be happy and loved in return for all the excellent qualities that he has. One day he will prove you wrong, Siger, and then won't you feel like such a fool for saying all of this?"

His father had smiled at her sardonically and had said, "One day they'll be a dead body lying in the middle of a crime scene and you'll have to deal with the fact that it was your son who put it there. Then won't you feel like such a fool for believing that he was capable of being anything more than a machine?"

The image faded. The strands of memory dissipated into darkness and Sherlock was left staring at the blackness of his closed eyelids. He was trembling violently with rage. Something hard and solid was expanding inside his stomach, threatening to burst through his skin, threatening to consume him. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and cradled his throbbing head in his hands. His hands were damp with sweat. They vibrated against either side of his head like pieces of metal struck against concrete. The outside world was silent, the waiting room and the hospital and the streams of passing patients had become diluted white noise. All he could hear was his shallow breathing and the whispering strings of his thoughts.

_You didn't think that I had a heart did you? Not a real one, nothing recognisably human. What did you think was there instead? Something shiny and metal, like what you would find inside a clockwork toy? Did you ever dream about opening up my sternum, taking a rib spreader and looking inside the cavity of my chest? In your mind did you see nothing but a set of functioning lungs and a dark absence of where something vital was supposed to be? You didn't think that there was anything there but you were wrong. I might not have a heart of my own but I believe that I stole one from my friend – because I do have a friend, it only took my thirty-two years but I have one now._

_The first day we met I told him that I was a sociopath and he didn't even blink. He didn't think that I was a sickness. He didn't leave, he didn't hate me, instead he helped me solve a string of murders by shooting a crazed cab driver dead through two sheets of glass and then he took me home and made me tea. And that was the first night that I felt it, when we were eating Chinese takeout cross legged in our new living room. He had said,_

_"That was mental! What we just did. Your life can't always be like that, can it?"_

_And I showed him my past cases, laying them all out on the carpet like we were making a giant mosaic, and he had oscillated repeatedly between looking fascinated, bemused, horrified and utterly amazed all night. And then, at about five in the morning, when strands of muted light had started to flood through the curtains and we had heard the sounds of the world waking up, we had fallen silent and he had stopped looking at the files, instead favouring to look at me._

_And that's when I had felt something inside my chest contract and relax. It was like the first blip on an ultrasound and it was succeeded by the feeling of ridiculous accomplishment and awe of the fact that now I could feel something inside of me growing out of nothing, I could feel it throbbing in a previously empty space._

_His heart in my chest is what I felt and, as disgustingly poetical and metaphoric as that statement sounds, it's true. So I might be a machine but I contain within me a piece of John Watson and because he is so achingly human I must be partly human too._

Through the strands of thought Sherlock became distantly aware of the fact that someone was trying to speak to him. His eyes slid open and he squinted at the bright, colourless waiting room in front of him. A quick examination of the clock on the opposing wall informed him that six hours had passed since he had slipped into his self-induced trance. He could see the sky through the window, it was black and still thickly shedding snow.

A few feet to his right a doctor was standing, staring at him with a mixture of mild concern and irritation.

"Mr Holmes." He said – going by the tone he was using he'd obviously been trying to gain Sherlock's attention for a number of minutes.

Sherlock stared at him: _Forty-seven, happily married for fifteen years despite two affairs – on her part not his – owns three parakeets, no children, recently started golfing - for pleasure? No, he detests the sport, business reasons then, golfing with the bosses to ensure that he's considered for a promotion – promotion at his age in the medical field must be vying for chief of surgery. Egotist. Patients not living entities, only bodies to fix and play God with. The prize is not saving the life it's saying that you were the one who saved it. There's a spec of blood on the inside of his right wrist, left there on purpose – he's meticulously clean – he left it there to remind himself, to remind others, what he is, what he does. He plays God. Look at how many hours I've spent trying to save a life. Aren't I marvelous? That blood belongs to John and just that tiny drying drop of it is more worthy that the man who's parading it like some sort of trophy._

Sherlock looked away from that fragment of John and stared at the doctor's face. He was waiting for Sherlock to speak, he was getting ready to perform the practiced speech that all those in his profession were taught to regurgitate in a monotone at moments like this. But Sherlock didn't need words. He knew what had happened – just like he knew about the doctor's egotism from the blood on his wrist and the state of his marriage by the shine on his ring. He was predominantly a machine after all and machines were brilliant at forming correlative links in split seconds.

The human in him wanted to collapse on the floor and release the scream that had been building inside him since he had first watched Moriarty thrust the knife into John's body. But Sherlock was made of more metal than flesh so he kept himself silent and still. He turned his face from the doctor and closed his eyes. He didn't need confirmation in the form of words. Sherlock knew what had happened to John Watson and now he had to work out what he was going to do with that information.


	30. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my much beloved readers, I can only give you my heartfelt apology for taking so long to continue this story. Some difficult things have happened to me over this past year and so I haven't been able to write. However I don't think it's fair for me to leave these characters in purgatory any longer so... let me finish what I started.

Through the intoxicating smog like haze of morphine, he could see the faint glow of light shining through the thin skin of his eyelids. The light had a thick, almost gelatinous consistency and the longer he looked at it the more it felt like the light was attempting to ooze its way inside the creases of his eyes and the pores of his skin. It hurt, in the same way that migraines and bee stings and friction blisters hurt. It was a slow building pain which began at his eyes and trickled down into the hollow nothingness that his body currently was. He had felt like this before, like someone had taken a knife and hollowed out his body until he was nothing more than a bag of skin stretched across bone, but he couldn't remember when. He couldn't remember anything beyond this moment of insistent light and building pain.

Something was changing though, he was starting to feel things. The more intense the light became the more he felt like he was being drawn further away from the expanse of unconscious numbness that he had been tethered to for days. He could feel the weighty drag of his limbs, almost as if he was being pulled across the sand smooth floor of a dark ocean, and as he watched the weak pulsing of the light intensify he became aware of his own heart contracting and relaxing in his chest. And then he became aware of other sensations, like the stinging pressure of a needle lodged in the crook of his elbow and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

He tried to move his head in the direction of his arm but the action caused the world to spin so violently that he felt as if he might vomit. He tried to speak but his throat felt so raw and his mouth so clogged with dried blood that all he could do was groan out a few incoherent syllables. He was about to groan out again when suddenly from nothing he began to hear something, he heard a voice, a man's voice. The man spoke with urgency but the words echoed in the empty chasm of his brain and he couldn't understand what the man was saying. The memory of the voice and the man it belonged to were being held just out of reach of his consciousness and the more he struggled to remember the more the memory seemed to fade. But the man kept on speaking and as he spoke he began to bring with him other sounds, those belonging to other voices, to bleeping machines and dripping IV lines.

And then the light and the pain intensified. More needles were being slid into his arm and his heart was beating so hard that his lungs began to burn. He wanted to cry out but he couldn't, there wasn't enough air, there was too much pain. All he could do was lie still and listen to the incoherent voice of the man – the man who now sounded like he was screaming – and feel his body shudder with each aching contraction of_

Everything stopped. The light died, feeling was lost, the man no longer spoke. There was nothing until, suddenly, he felt his body pulsing with electricity as he was shocked back to life. His eyes flew open and he caught a brief glimpse of blurred figures and scorching light before he failed again and everything retracted to nothingness.

* * *

 

The light had returned although this time it didn't hurt. It was waking him up. The smoggish haze had receded and, despite the fierce aching of his head, he was finally able to open his eyes. At first the world was nothing but a blur of colour but after his eyes began to adjust to light he was able to make out his surroundings.

It was early morning, he could tell because weak golden light was falling through the bare window and onto the green hospital blankets covering his bed. He followed the stream of light to where it landed on his forearm. The skin around the crook of his elbow was bruised various shades of yellow and blue from where numerous needles had been forcibly pushed into his veins. He stared at his abused flesh for a long while, trying to recall how it had happened. He opened his mouth and relished the feeling of clean air replacing the stagnant breath that had been trapped in his mouth for however many days he had lain in this bed unconscious.

After a while he turned his attention from his arm to the rest of the room. It was vacant however there was a chair sitting in the corner of the room facing the bed and a paper cup full of some sort of steaming liquid perked on the window sill. Someone had been here and someone was coming back very soon, but he couldn't find it in him to care, he was being pumped full of too much morphine to think about anything more than the steam flowing out of the cup. As he watched the steam swirl and dance in the early morning light he felt his eyelids growing impossibly heavy and even though he fought to keep them open darkness claimed him once more.

* * *

 

The next time he woke it must have hours, or possibly days, later. The window was dark but the room was being dimly lit by the reading lamp affixed to the wall above his head. Although the room was half cast in shadows he could still make out the suit clad figure that was sitting in the empty chair of the morning.

The man had yet to notice him as his eyes were bent towards his lap where he was writing on a document with a heavy looking fountain pen. His suit, although expensive, appeared to be somewhat creased from days of continuous wear. His pale skin had taken on a sickly, ghost like pallor and the crease in his brow had grown significantly more defined. He stared at the man for a few long moments until comprehension began to bleed back into his brain.

He opened his cracked, bone dry lips and hoarsely managed to whisper, "Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes looked up from the paperwork he had been completing and stared back at him. His ice blue eyes were surrounded by skin tainted purple from lack of sleep and his chin was covered in a fine, almost invisible, layer of stubble that had yet to be strategically removed. He looked haggard and drained, older even, and overwhelmingly racked with worry. The two men stared at each other for an immeasurable amount of time before Mycroft's lips curled into a small, barely perceptible, sardonic smile,

"Ah, Dr Watson," he said, placing his pen gently down on the stack of papers in his lap, "What a pleasure it is to have you back with us in the land of the living."


End file.
